


Revivification

by TurtleNovas



Series: Moral Decay [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: (For the Necrophilia), Actual Character Death, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dustin goes way the hell off the deep end, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Happy Ending (for Steve and Dustin at least), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Light Masochism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Murder, Necromancy, Necrophilia, Rimming, Season 1 & 2 canon compliant, Staged Suicide, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 17:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17187101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TurtleNovas/pseuds/TurtleNovas
Summary: Steve is dead, and there's no price Dustin won't pay to bring him back.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will likely be more enjoyable if you have read the first fic in the series.
> 
> Heed the tags and summary, please. There are multiple character deaths in this, and only one is temporary. Also, there is explicit sex with a dead body in this. The dubcon tag is because a corpse cannot consent. The "staged suicide" tag is because there is a murder that is graphically depicted and set up to look like a suicide. 
> 
> Someone very kind made a playlist that goes with this, and I love it! They posted it anonymously, but [here](https://8tracks.com/turtlenovas/revivification) is a link to an 8tracks version of it that I uploaded.

Steve is dead, his body cold and pale, the brilliant splash of color across his ribs one of the only indicators to mark that he was alive only a few hours ago.  Dustin feels like the world is tilting under him, constantly shifting and pitching in an effort to keep him off balance, the air so thick and heavy that he can't hear anything but a rushing in his ears, like the noise an ultrasound makes when you press it to the outside of a womb.  They're trying to take Steve's body from him, or to take him from Steve's body, he's not sure which, but the point is, they're trying to separate them, and Dustin is ready to slash as many throats as necessary to keep that from happening.  He must be moving fast, if the way his friends are startled and flinching means anything, but he feels like he's swimming through oil and sand as he lashes out, holding a shard of broken window glass as a weapon, hand sore and stinging like his skin might split on the edge soon.  He gnashes his teeth and can't be sure whether he's speaking tongues, or just unable to comprehend his own language as he wails and screams.    
  
It takes what feels like an eternity, but eventually they leave him.  He doesn't know where they're going, or what they're planning to do (probably call the cops to steal Steve away from him, he thinks, and feels rage roaring up inside of him like demonic possession, tearing his skin open from the inside and spilling out over the surface until he's wearing the body of a monster instead).  Mike is the last to leave, and for once he actually looks guilty for what he's done, terror and anguish marring his delicate features until he looks like some sort of broken porcelain doll that got fucked up on the factory line.  Dustin tries his best to enunciate when he promises to slice him open from dick to throat if he doesn't leave.    
  
Steve had saved him, had jumped in and taken the brunt of what would have been a fatal blow, because Mike had been brash and cocky and incredibly stupid as usual, too focused on wanting to help El, and not focused enough on using his brain in any meaningful way.  Steve had seen the danger first and had acted on instinct.  Now Mike is alive, and Steve is dead, bled out through a pair of savaged femoral arteries, the monsters this time having far more finesse than before.  Evolution in the upside down, Dustin thinks, with a sort of detached intellectual admiration, must happen much more quickly than it does on this side. 

Dustin pulls Steve's body closer as he watches Mike walk away, and decides that he's not going to stay dead.  
  
Science is not very forgiving.  That much Dustin knows.  That much he has ingrained in the very core of his being.  But he also knows that science isn't the only force of nature.  He knows that sometimes there are things which cannot be explained by the rudimentary concepts of understanding humans have developed.  He knows there are alternate dimensions full of monsters and death.  He knows, more importantly, that there are pockets of magic in this dimension, and people who know precisely how to utilize them, having kept the secrets of the practice alive for thousands of years, long after science decided it was all hornswoggle.  Dustin even knows where to find one of those exact people, because she had helped them before, when the rip had been so massive that even El, with her seemingly infinite and ever growing powers, had been unable to knit it back together on her own.    
  
He puts his mouth on Steve's forehead, ignoring the sheen of sweat and grime, the taste of his absolute terror leaking out through every pore as he lay dying in Dustin's arms, everyone helpless to stop the bleeding.  He'd apologized before his ability to speak had ebbed away, gushing out onto the concrete along with everything else that made him who he was.  He'd apologized, as if he'd known that Dustin would never have approved of the trade off, would never have determined that Mike's life was worth more than his.  He'd apologized as if he knew that Dustin's life would end with his and thought that was probably his greatest sin.  Fortunately for the both of them, Dustin is entirely disinclined to simply accept their fate.  They hadn't accepted it when Will was definitely dead, and he's certainly not going to accept it now, when he knows he has options.  He's not going to sit here and cry, or beg, or mourn when Steve's body still hasn't even gone totally cold, when he knows exactly where he needs to go and what questions to ask.  Not when he knows, with unadulterated confidence, that there is no price he's unwilling to pay.      
  
It's difficult to lift Steve on his own, to arrange his limbs in such a way that he doesn't go rolling out of Dustin's grasp as he tries to stand, but he flat out refuses to drag Steve's body, wanting to keep it as intact as possible for when he wakes up.  It's an effort, but far from impossible when Dustin is fueled with adrenaline, and rage, and absolute, unflinching knowledge that if he doesn't manage it, he will actually lose Steve forever.  His entire body is shaking by the time he gets Steve into the car, laid out as gently as possible across the back seat, head cushioned on Dustin's folded up hoodie, caked as it may be with remnants of the evening.  He digs gently around in Steve's pockets for his keys, touching him reverently, with care, and heat, and all the things he would if he were still alive.  He knows there  _is_  magic to make this happen, but he can't know what  _kind_  of magic it might be, has no way of knowing if Steve will come back remembering or feeling what happens to his body while he's away.  It's not a risk Dustin is willing to take.  He presses his palm to Steve's cheek, whiter than the circle of the moon in the sky, and colder to the touch as well, Dustin thinks.    
  
"Don't worry, sweetheart," he whispers, just as he would if Steve were panicking and needed to be calmed.  "I've got you."  He tucks a seatbelt over Steve's body as best he can, managing to get it mostly over his hips, despite his supine position, and then he closes the door and goes around to slip into the driver's seat.  It's an odd feeling, being behind the wheel of Steve's car.  Steve is always the one who drives when they're together, because Dustin hates it so much, and Steve is always happy to take them where they need to be, even more so when it means he gets to come along when they otherwise might be separated.  Dustin runs his hands over the wheel, focusing on the feel of the leather under his palms, letting himself feel close to Steve as he does it, knowing that this is a sensation Steve has had thousands of times in his life, and now it's one Dustin shares with him and will remember forever.    
  
He turns the key in the ignition, ignoring the way his hands are shaking, his muscles fatigued, his legs like jello, ready to wiggle away off his body at any given moment.  He squeezes hard at the wheel, until he feels the ache of it all the way into his shoulders, and berates himself silently, so Steve won't ever know how much he's losing it.  He doesn't have time to be weak, he tells himself, and wants to snarl and clamp his teeth hard over flesh, until blood fills his mouth and he takes justice on everyone who brought him to this point.  Instead, he turns on the air conditioning, ignoring the way it sends shivers exploding over his body, already chilled from the winter night air.  He knows where he's going, had given his mom directions to the same place only two days ago, and it's a long drive.  He can't risk Steve starting to go rotten before he manages what he has to do.  Nothing in Steve has ever been rotten before, and Dustin's not going to let it start now, when the responsibility of preventing decay is entirely his.  
  
He stops at every gas station for the first twenty miles and buys a few bags of ice.  He covers as much of Steve's skin as he can with what little fabric he has available, and lays the bags of ice gently over him, until the whole back of the car is filled, and all that's left to cover is his face.  When it comes to that point, Dustin almost feels himself start to cry, and he has to walk away and yell at himself where Steve won't hear him, vicious and unforgiving, until he can grasp at rage and strength again and feel calm.  He kisses Steve on the mouth, upside down, because he's leaning in through the open door, but as sweet as he can manage.  "Sit tight, baby," he says, and clenches his fist hard over the top of the door when he hears his voice waver.  He swallows hard.  "I'm gonna take care of you."  It comes out firm and powerful, and Dustin almost feels like he could simply demand the universe return Steve to him now, for fear of the destruction his rage will cause if his desires aren't met.  But he knows that's not how things work, and he's willing to put in the effort, to pay the correct price to get what he needs.  He lays a  tshirt he bought at the last truck stop over Steve's face, and then places the last bag of ice as gently as he can.  He rolls the window down before closing the door, knowing that it's well below freezing out, and this is the absolute best way to keep Steve fresh.  
  
His entire body feels numb by the time he pulls into the parking lot of his destination.  He's shivering relentlessly, shaking so hard it's difficult even to unfurl his fingers from around the wheel, and even more challenging to force them to complete the delicate task of removing the keys from the ignition.  Fortunately, it's late enough, and the area is remote enough that he doesn't need to worry about locking the car or rolling up the windows.  He jogs across the black expanse of open space between the car and the small building, the fine, dusty dirt beneath his feet kicking up in little plumes around his sneakers with every step, deceptively loose when the ground underneath is frozen solid, sending an ache up through Dustin's entire body with every impact.  

The building is dark, all the lights inside extinguished, and even the gaudy neon sign in the front window unplugged for the evening.  It's a small place, not quite a store, but not quite a house either.  He remembers from last time how the proprietor, the  _witch,_  lives on the upper floor and operates her shop out of the bottom floor.  The whole place had been cluttered and full of various and sundry bullshit, meant to trick and appease all the new agey dumbasses who thought love and light and all those things were real and worth wasting money on.  It had been upstairs, in the woman's house, where the real shit had been.   _So I can keep an eye on them_ , she'd said, as if she thought it was obvious that her implements might have bidding of their own to do against her will.  She'd never told them her name, said they should simply call her Ma'am, and that she didn't give her name to strangers, but would do them the courtesy of refraining from lying as well, since they had been there for something  _real_.

The front door is rickety, four panes of glass fit loosely into the wood so that it rattles and screeches as if the whole thing is going to come down when Dustin's fist makes contact.  He doesn't wait for signs of life inside, just keeps banging, hard enough that he feels splinters digging in under his skin and thinks, if he just tried a little more, he could just break the whole door in.  He's halfway to deciding to do it when suddenly the door swings open, and she's there, sleep frazzled and looking very cross.  She reminds Dustin of his mom, only meaner, and full of dark things, like she has earthen soil in her veins instead of blood, worms crawling in her arteries, and beetles swarming in her guts, keeping her alive with the slithering, skittery movement of their shiny little bodies.  He thinks she's probably very good at playing the kindly old lady, selling crystals to heal the soul, taking money better spent on doctors and therapy, sending the naive away damaged and on an accelerated path to utterly broken.    

She scowls and reaches behind the door frame, shuffling around for a moment, and then there is a quiet click, a flickering buzz, and the whole stoop is flooded with dirty yellow light.  Dustin only looks at her, staring into her face, and making it known without words that he won't be leaving without what he came for.  She looks back for a long moment and he thinks, if it were any other time, he'd be quaking, cowed and ready to run back home and never return.  She has power, and he's almost certain he can feel it prickling over his skin and under his hair, zinging like static shock across every part of his body.  He bares his teeth, and wonders if that rumbling sound of menace in the air is coming from him.

He feels feral and rabid, like he should be foaming at the mouth, gnashing and screaming, ready to tear anyone who stands in his way apart with his teeth and his bare hands.  He feels like there is terror in him, roaring through the core of him, twining together with his rage until all he is becomes animosity, and he's ready to froth and boil, to melt his skin away from bone and forge it into a weapon of poison and fire.  If he doesn't get what he wants, he's going to kill the world instead, and this woman is the sole guardian of the secrets he wants to gather.  She holds the key.  He refuses to look away.  

He doesn't know how long it takes.  His body was already dead numb when he arrived, and by now it's too cold even to bother with shivering.  There is no light in the sky by which to track the passage of time, the nearly full moon somehow completely invisible in this stretch of land, a concession to the power of the woman occupying it.  There are stars, but even if he were paying attention, he has no way of understanding what they might tell him.  So instead he stands, body as dead as it possibly can be while he still breathes, teeth bared to the cold, and stares, unable to hope for anything, only able to know that he will get what he wants, because if he doesn't, nothing matters anyways.  Finally she nods and relaxes, leaning into her posture so that she's slouching, hip cocked, one arm resting on the door jamb as a slow smile comes over her face. 

"Wasn't your mother just here?" she asks, and he knows that she knows something else is going on.

"She's not here anymore," he grits out, and tries to remember that he has to respect her or he might die before he can even make it through the door.  

Her teeth begin to show under the crescent of her lips.  "But you are.  I wonder why.  Such a sweet little lamb."  

He points behind him, in the general direction of the car, but doesn't break eye contact.  "I'm bringing him back."  His voice wavers, cracking and shifting over the severity of his mania.  

"Oh?" She sounds curious and mildly amused, like she thinks he won't.  He snarls at her, slams the heel of his hand hard against the nearest slat of wood.  The windows rattle with the force.  She looks like a serpent, her features suddenly long and narrow, as if the lighting has changed, but really, all that's changed, he knows, is how much danger he's in.  Her body relaxes even further, and she drifts back out of the doorway, tilts her head at him.  "I discuss serious inquiries in the upstairs."

It's an effort to remember how to move, to force his stone cold muscles to crack open and let him proceed, but his determination is warm, and Steve is waiting, so he takes the first aching, ripping, grinding step over the threshold.  Another step, and he pauses, hand on the jamb to keep her from shutting the door behind him.  "He'll be safe there?" he asks, willing to destroy something to change the answer if he doesn't like it.

She purses her lips, eyebrows drawing down in a sharp movement.  "Of course," she says, as if the inquiry is asinine.  Then her hand is over his on the wood, fingers searingly warm, curled so tightly over his, he feels his bones creaking with the pressure.  It's an effort not to flinch, even as raw as he is in the moment.  "Keep in mind, little lamb, that you are in  _my_  home now.  And  _I_  have all the answers."  She lets go just as suddenly as she had grabbed on, a smile flashing over her face like quicksilver.  She winks at him and it feels like a snake's eye flashing.  "Behave yourself."  There's amusement there, as if she finds the idea of him even attempting to misbehave entertaining.

He bites down on another snarl, forces himself to nod instead, mouth tight, jaw clenched so hard the sound of his teeth grinding against each other is nearly deafening in his skull.  He shoves his hands in his pockets with a sort of violence that he thinks is probably counterproductive right now, but it's all he can manage.  The scrape of the denim across his cold skin is agonizing, and he bites back on a hiss, unwilling to show regret or weakness, and unwilling to back down from the savagery simmering inside of himself, unsure if he'll be able to get through this night without it.  He curls his fingers into fists in his pockets, presses his knuckles hard into his thighs, expecting them to bruise as he follows her through the maze of garbage and chicanery.  It's everything he can do not to destroy something.  

When they finally make it up the stairs and into the room Dustin remembers from before, where she does her real business, he lets himself take his hands back out, forces them to lay flat over his thighs when she directs him to a seat with an expectant nod, eyebrow raised in a challenge.  He doesn't let his fingers curl into the denim, although he has to press them against his flesh so hard they go white to the last knuckle to keep them flat, everything in him raw and electric, a live wire of aggression towards the universe for having the audacity to put him in this situation in the first place.  But she has the answers, and more important than anything else, he has to have them.  

She takes her sweet time arranging herself, movements regal and haughty, as if she's wearing medieval finery and not a stupid cat tshirt and heart printed flannel pants.  The bunnies on her slippers wave jauntily with every step she takes, and again as she crosses one knee over the other with a flourish, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table between them.  The rest of the room is dark, only the small circle space they are occupying lit by flickering yellow light.  He can't even see the source, doesn't want to be caught looking away to locate it.  

"I'm sure you are aware," she says, and he's convinced there is poison in her voice, dripping into the air, waiting to kill him if he lingers too long.  "That the price is heavy.  For the information, and for the resurrection itself."  

He swallows hard, his mouth full of the taste of blood where it's rushing close under his gums, raw and stinging from the cold and the anxiety, and the harsh attrition of his teeth pressing against each other under the clench of his jaw.  "I know," he says, gritty and low, a threat against whatever victim will be required of him.

She hums quietly, a little smile worming across her face as she rests her chin in the palm of her hand.  As much as she'd seemed a serpent before, she now looks like a bird, hawk eyed and predatory, ready to take, and relishing the chance to purvey such dark and heady power.  "I know the spell."  She trails the fingers of her free hand through the air absently, as if indicating this is a given, not even worth discussing.  "I can give you the words, the ritual, the implement.  In exchange, when it's done, I want two of your fingers."  

It catches him off guard, and he startles physically, the rage temporarily spooked out of him by the oddity of the request.  "What the fuck?" he asks, quiet and confused, as if maybe he has a friend next to him to commiserate with.  

Except he's alone, and she's the only other creature here to consume his words.  She smiles, and there is a flash of teeth again, a little hint of tongue as she licks her bottom lip.  He feels his heart pick up pace and his skin breaks out in gooseflesh as every part of him that's still human goes on high alert, scrabbling at the back of his brain in an attempt to make him run.  He stays.  Her smile widens and morphs into a grin.  "The hand of a murderer is a powerful thing," she says, as if she's telling him it's going to rain.  "But my brand of magic also demands a fair cost, and the whole hand is too much.  So."  She holds up two fingers, a grim impression of a peace sign.  "Two fingers.  Any you like.  After you've completed the ritual and confirmed success."  

There's static in Dustin's brain for a few moments as he waits for the human part of him to recede again so that he can go back to taking care of what needs to be done.  He swallows, breathes steady through his nose, stares at a point on the wall behind her left shoulder, and waits, entire body shaking with a tremor so violent his chair is clattering against the tile.  He's sweating, sudden and profuse, and he can already smell the beginnings of the stink on his skin.  Anxiety sweat, so much worse than anything the body produces during physical exertion alone.  He thinks of Steve, and how he had been clammy and rank, his body trying so hard to weather the terror of knowing his death was imminent.  He thinks of the taste of Steve's skin after, of how it had been bitter and sour against his lips, Steve's weight heavy in his arms, the glass sharp in Dustin's hand as he warded off everyone who wanted to tear them apart.  

His hands steady first, and then the calm sweeps over him in a wave, burning like a razing fire, sucking the oxygen out of his humanity until it shrivels under the consumptive touch of his determination.  A creature is allowed to kill if that's what it takes to keep its own family alive, so a creature is what Dustin is going to be.  He clips his gaze back onto hers, no longer afraid or anxious of what might come next, because he's remembered that's why he's here.  "I'll kill whoever I have to," he says, and his voice isn't as light as hers, but it is steady, all hesitation lost to the ashes inside his chest.  

She sits back in her chair, folding her hands delicately in her lap, and gives a small nod.  "Fortunately, you get to choose, although I would advise, given the nature of these kinds of powers, it be someone close.  Equal exchange and all that jazz." 

He swallows hard around Mike's name crowding up inside his throat, scrambling and fighting to get out, claws dragging his throat raw and bloody, shredding his tongue, and chipping at his teeth.  He nods.  She doesn't need to know who it will be or why he will choose them.  She doesn't need to know anything except that he's good for the payment.  "What do I need to do?"  He's proud to hear confidence in his voice instead of dread, and is determined not to let himself slip into thinking about the implication of that until it's all over.

"To put it simply," she starts, and is all business now that she has apparently confirmed his worth for herself.  "You'll need to take a life with an implement related to that which took his life.  Then you need to sanctify the ritual space with the blood you've shed, and spill into the body the stuff of life.  An incantation is required, but with these kinds of things, the words themselves have very little value.  Your intent made manifest is all that's necessary."  

He nods again while he processes the information, running the words over in his brain repeatedly to make sure he's secured the knowledge he needs.  "Stuff of life?" he asks, unsure what she means.  "Do you mean more blood?"  It's the only thing he can think.

She laughs and unease jangles through his ribs and into his belly like a jaunty beat.  "No.  I mean the genesis of birth.  As a reagent to facilitate the exchange and indicate that his life is the one to be returned in exchange for the one you've sacrificed."  

He almost feels like himself for a moment as he reels with his confusion.  "What the fuck?" he says again, but louder this time, incredulous as to why she won't just fucking say what she means.  He curls his fingers against the fabric of his pants, nails scratching noisily on the denim.

She rolls her eyes.  "Why does everyone always insist on making me say it the vulgar way?"  She pins him with an expectant look, but still he's coming up blank, feels the rage boiling up inside of him more and more the longer she waits to clarify.  She scoffs and sits forward all at once, elbows back on the table, gaze harsh and hungry on his, snapping the thread of his anger and tying it back into a knot of anxious tension with startling immediacy.  "Fuck the body," she says, tone saccharine, like she's speaking to a nitwit.  "Come inside."  Another vague trail of her fingers through the air.  "The genesis of life."  

"Oh," he chokes, voice raw with the sudden image of it screaming across his already animalized brain.  Heat rolls low in his belly, and he thinks  _of course_ , because now that she's spelled it out, it seems kind of obvious.  He waits for another moment, to give himself time to adjust to the thought, and realizes that, more than anything, his body is excited by the prospect, warm and ready to do whatever he has to do to bring life back into Steve, greedy and eager for the opportunity to have intimacy with him again.  He unfurls his fingers and rubs his suddenly sweaty palms over his jeans.  "Right.  Okay."  He shakes his head in an effort to clear his mind, reminds himself that he has to kill someone first, and lets it sober him, cutting the emotions off before he can work his way around to guilt, reminding himself also that it should've been Mike dead in the first place.  "What about the implement for the murder?"  

She frowns.  "I hate to give it up really, but you remember the payment you gave last time?"  

He nods.  She had lent her power to help close the gate, and in exchange, they had allowed her to harvest a demogorgon for parts, no questions asked.  She had only mentioned that creatures of death are made of great power.  

"I have a dagger from one of the bones.  If you use that, it should do."  

"And that's included in your price?" he asks, just to be sure, already strategizing on which two fingers will be the easiest to lose.  

"Yes, all expenses paid."  She smiles like she think she's being witty and Dustin feels his lip raise in a snarl before he can stop it.  She holds her hands up in mock surrender.  "Alright, alright.  No sense of humor, I see."  

Then she's up and moving around the room, the light somehow following her, though Dustin is still unwilling to look away in order to find the source, his skin still prickling with unease, even the creature part of him fully aware that she is a predator, and he is outmatched.  When she comes back to the table, she stands closer to him, and he feels like his hackles are raising, can see the hair on his arms standing on end, and wants desperately to stand, to growl and snap and show her that he won't easily be taken.  He stays put, reminds himself that they are striking a bargain, and she has no reason to bother with killing him now.  His hands aren't even valuable to her yet.  

She sets a knife down in front him, the surface of it ash black and matte, rough like it's been carved from wood, whittled by an untrained hand, and not at all what he would expect of a bone implement.  He doesn't say anything.  Next she sets down a prescription bottle with no label and several capsules sitting inside.  He casts her a wary glance, hoping his question is apparent in his face, because he's too on edge to speak with her this close to him.  She smiles.  "Paralytics," she says simply.  "My own concoction.  It'll work if ingested, but is even better used sublingually."  She tilts her head, and he could swear her eyes flash silver for a moment, as if the moon that is gone from the sky in this place has taken residence inside her skull.  "If you've never taken a life before, this will ease the way."  She taps the bottle with her blunt fingernails and leans in close, teeth glimmering in the low light.  He feels her breath on his cheek, and the sweat returns, cold and calamitous, the threat of her presence obvious to every part of him.  "A little tip, free of charge.  If you slit the wrists, you can collect the blood and conduct the ritual elsewhere.  And it decreases the chance of a thorough police investigation."  She turns and looks him directly in the eye, smile still toothy and sharp.  "It helps, too, if you choose someone unstable."  

He feels his throat working around a swallow, feels it seizing, dry and raw as his mouth ceases to produce any saliva.  He won't look away, even if he's sure she can  _smell_  the fear on him by now.  "Thank you for the advice," he says, and chokes on the end, barely able to suppress a cough as the words stumble out.  It calms him a little to realize that, of everyone he knows, Mike fits the profile of  _unstable_  the most.  His choice is sound, and so is her advice.  

She winks and glides back out of his space with a flourish.  He can't help but wonder how can she be so terrifying wearing the pajamas of a middle aged housewife.  She turns her back for a brief moment, and it looks like she's digging around on one of her shelves again.  When she turns back she places a mason jar onto the table with a sharp thud.  "Put the blood in this.  It'll keep longer."  

He looks at her for a long moment, confused.  "Why are you giving me extra advice?" he asks, and has just enough presence of mind to know that he's an idiot for questioning her generosity. 

She lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug.  "I like you, I think.  You have the essence in you."  

He doesn't ask what the fuck she means, even though he'd very much like to know.  Instead, he nods with finality, and moves to stand, proud of himself for not collapsing to the floor when pain shoots up through him, the tension of his muscles clamping down on itself and twisting up until he's sure he must have knives in every soft part of his body.  He staggers, and leans heavily on the table, taking a moment to breathe hard through his nose, almost grateful that the pain is enough to distract him from the pants shitting terror of showing so much vulnerability in front of this woman.  Still, he feels his asshole twitch and sting when his breathing starts to regulate again, and has to clench up on himself to be sure he's not about to soil his pants.  

He makes the effort to meet her eye again, despite himself, only manages it by remembering once again the image of Steve's body, packed in ice, so pale he'd almost seemed translucent, as if he could fade away to nothing at any moment.  "Kill someone with that knife.  Collect the blood.  Paint a circle and fuck the body until I come inside.  Tell the universe what I want.  Is there anything else I should know?"  

She leans in close and he has to clench even harder, feels his bowels squirming and pushing to make him shit himself, is pretty sure the first sphincter has already given way.  Her fingertips are warm against his still chilled skin, pressing delicately at the underside of his chin as she leans in close enough to make him wonder if he should expect a kiss.  "It may be temporary," she says, full of glee, and taps at his chin until his teeth click.  He hadn't even noticed his mouth dropping open.   

"How temporary?" he asks, and most of it is lost to the clogged up pleghmy feeling of terror in his throat.

"You know, I'm not sure."  She steps back out of his space and puts her hands on her hips, staring up into nothing as if she's genuinely thinking about it, before turning her gaze back to his, sharp as ever.  "It probably moves with some cycle of nature.  Moon phases, seasons, revelations around the sun.  It's hard to say really.  Might even depend on how worthy your sacrifice is."  She shrugs.  "I guess you'll just have to wait and see.  But the procedure is the same every time, if you want to repeat it.  Fresh sacrifice and reagent every time, obviously.  My price is one time only."  

"Okay," he says, as firm as he can manage, body cooperating a little more now that she isn't touching him.  "We have a deal."  


	2. Chapter 2

He showers before anything else when gets back to Hawkins.  He goes to Steve's house, because he doesn't want to encounter his mom along the way, not when he's planning the kinds of things he's planning.  He thinks if he saw her, it would make him feel entirely too human, would remind him that any other time, he'd feel sickeningly guilty about the things he's planning to do.  Instead, he leaves her a message on the answering machine, so she'll know he's alive and intact and just needs time to himself.  He doesn't want her to worry.  Steve's parents are out of town, which Dustin knows, because he keeps track of them even when Steve isn't around, a force of habit gained during years of worrying about how lonely he must be by himself in that big house.  He parks the car in the garage, grateful that it's cold enough outside that he's relatively certain it's still well below freezing in there.  He leaves the garage door cracked to let any remaining warmth out as he goes inside to clean up.  He refuses to let himself linger in Steve's room, stays only long enough to gather some clothes to wear, refuses to touch his old things, refuses to do anything that might let him drop into thinking of Steve as being  _gone_  or worthy of being missed, when he's right there, and will be back shortly.

He runs the shower as hot as he can stand it and scrubs vigorously at his skin, wanting to remove as much of the grime of battle as he can, and desperate to get the stink of his fearful anxiety sweat out of his pits and groin.  He does it quickly, not willing to linger any longer than necessary, and when he's finished his skin is red and raw to the touch.  He wears Steve's clothes, even though they're a little tight on him, and rummages in the pantry for a quick snack, just to make sure he won't pass out before he can finish his tasks.  He forces himself to drink two glasses of water as a final act of preparation, well aware that he hasn't peed in at least 8 hours, and has been sweating profusely.  His kidneys will probably thank him when all this is over and he finally crashes.  Or none of this will work, and he'll be dead anyways, so it won't matter.  Either way, he thinks it's probably best if he isn't catastrophically dehydrated during what comes next.  

He checks on Steve before he leaves, moves the ice off his face and runs his fingertips reverently over the bridge of his nose, the arch of his cheeks, and the plush cushion of his mouth, desperately ignoring the strange, solid feel of him and how little give there is.  He kisses him on the mouth again, as if he is alive to feel it and be comforted by it, and tries not to shiver at the cold against his lips.  He puts the ice back in place reluctantly, not wanting it to be  _immediately_  obvious there's a body in the car on the very tiny chance that anyone finds it.  Then he leaves, the loose pills in one pocket of the jacket he's pilfered, the special jar in the other, and the dagger tucked into the back of his jeans, ready for the long walk to the Wheeler residence, unwilling to drive the car and have it seen parked at their house when he doesn't plan for anyone other than Mike to know he's been there.  It's already evening again, the meeting with the witch having taken longer than it seemed while he was there, and the drive back home being even more slow and agonizing than the one over, as Dustin had been forced to stop a few times and get warm, smiling and laughing with gas station attendants about how he'd been put in charge of getting a massive load of ice for a party the next day and didn't have a cooler big enough to store it all.  

Now the sun is long past the horizon, the waning moon already high in the sky, and Dustin knows well enough that the Wheelers will all be in bed by now, even Mike and Nancy, considering the exhaustion the day before has most likely brought.  He also knows all the secrets of their house, all the best ways to sneak inside without being noticed, for the sake of late night gatherings doing all the same stupid shit that they always get up to, only more excitingly because it's covert.  It doesn't take much effort to jimmy the lock on the basement door, and he knows exactly which stairs to skip on the way up to avoid creaking, his shoes held tightly in his hand so that he can tread even more quietly.  He opens the door quickly, knowing that's the best way to prevent the squeaky hinge from going off, and pauses, breathing as quietly as possible, to make sure Mr. Wheeler hasn't woken from his doze on the recliner.  After several long moments of silence, he creeps into the kitchen, stops to pull a knife from the block, and then moves quietly past the living room to head upstairs.  He pauses again when he's there and checks under all the doors he can see, making note that the lights are all off.  

From there it's easy to steal down the carpeted hallway and push Mike's door silently open, squeezing in through as small a crack as possible to avoid waking him with extra light from the hall window.  He can see the lump of Mike in his bed, but isn't sure yet if he's fully asleep or just dozing, the way he often does until his insomnia gives in for the night.  He sets the knife he brought from the kitchen on the carpet along with his shoes and moves closer, careful to track for obstacles as he goes, the moonlight through the window just bright enough to let him see shapes, and he stops at Mike's bedside, trying to formulate the best plan of action.  He wants it to be over as quickly as possible; doesn't want to risk any noise that will wake other people in the house, or worse, risk making his memories any more violent than they already will be.  His soul is already going to weigh enough when this is over, and he needs to ensure he'll still be capable of carrying it.  He can't afford to leave Steve behind after going through all of this to bring him back.

Mike looks peaceful enough that he must be really sleeping, his delicate features placid and ghostly pale in the wash of moonlight.  Dustin doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to remember that this is his friend, someone he's grown up with and into over the last decade, who knows almost every secret he has to tell, and has guarded them with ferocity and dedication.  He doesn't want to remember that this is a boy who is as in love with someone as Dustin is with Steve, or that he's their DM, leading the charge and holding the group together long after they've stopped playing the game.  There are bad things he could remember, too - the way Mike's temper flares at the drop of a hat, the way he isolates people when he's angry with them, and takes too much ownership over the people he cares about; the way he never cows to understanding, even when a person's he's fighting with has good reasons for what they've done, the way he stokes the fires of resentment intentionally among the group, even if the fight isn't his.  The list goes on, but still, those are things that remind Dustin of how true the friendship is, knowing they're flaws he, and all of the party, have put up with over the years  _because_  they love Mike as their friend.  Dustin can't think about any of that.  He can only look at Mike and remember that he's here, alive and breathing, face serene under the veil of sleep, because Steve is gone.

Dustin latches onto the thought, and reminds himself that it was Mike's brashness and ego that had put Steve in the position to save him in the first place.  Mike's tunnel vision lack of care for everyone around him when it came to "helping" El, who hadn't even been in peril at the time.  And it had been Mike who was the last to leave, who had had the audacity to try to talk Dustin down from the ledge of feral mania as Steve lay motionless in his arms, his life the expense for Mike's own survival.  Most importantly, he remembers that, in the most simple interpretation of current events, Mike has to die for Steve to live.  

It makes it easy, then, to gather a small handful of pills from his jacket pocket and use his free hand to vault onto Mike's bed, straddling his body and using his weight as leverage to pin him in place.  As Mike comes awake, startled but quiet, Dustin takes the dagger from his pants and holds it up in plain view, knees pressed hard into Mike's shoulders and angled as a bracket to his jaw, holding his head still.  Mike's eyes are wide, and he looks ready to shout, looks like maybe he's just struggling to get enough air for it with all of Dustin's weight settled on his chest.  "Don't make a sound," Dustin hisses, and it drips like acid from his tongue.

Mike's mouth goes visibly tighter and he nods, eyes still big and terrified, the rest of his features settling closer to confusion now that he seemingly recognizes Dustin.  "If you want me to forgive you," Dustin continues, and it's hard and full of menace.  "You'll eat these."

Dustin holds up the hand with the pills, cupped and tilted just enough for Mike to catch sight of the little pile of yellow capsules inside.  He feels Mike take a laborious breath, feels his chest trying to move to displace Dustin's weight, and then Mike whispers, "What are they?"  His voice is strangled, and it's obvious he doesn't have quite enough air, but Dustin knows well enough what's too much when it comes to these things and is well practiced at controlling someone else's airflow when he needs to.  

"It doesn't matter," he says, snappish.  "It won't kill you, if that's what you're wondering."  It's enough of a truth.  The pills themselves aren't what's going to take the life, that's pretty plainly written in the rules.

Mike looks up at him for a very long time, his chest puffing and deflating like bellows, laboring desperately under the weight of Dustin's body and his unrelenting scrutiny.  Finally, after what feels like hours, but is probably only a minute or two, he frowns and says, "And if I do it, you'll forgive me?"

"Yes," Dustin says, and it's the absolute truth.

Another deep breath, almost strong enough to shift Dustin where he's seated, and then Mike nods, his mouth dropping open wide enough for Dustin to pour the pills in.  He does it one at a time, until there are six of them in Mike's mouth, and then he taps the underside of Mike's chin and says, "Chew," because he remembers what the witch said about how it works better absorbed sublingually.  

Mike does as he's told, and immediately his face crumples, his eyes beginning to water, his whole body trying to heave as he gags.  Dustin assumes the taste must be something rank, but he doesn't move, only watches, as impassive as he can manage, until Mike swallows and looks back up at him, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes near his nose.  "Now what?" he asks, and his voice is choked and raw, like he may have vomited a little and swallowed it back down.

"Now we wait."  Dustin rests the dagger flat side down against Mike's mouth and does his best to keep his face neutral as he watches for signs that the drugs are working.

It doesn't take long before Mike's face goes from disturbed to distracted, and he looks up at Dustin, meeting his eyes directly for the first time since he ate the pills, and says, "Dude, can we maybe wait with you not sitting on me.  I can't feel anything."  

A thrill of adrenaline runs through him as he hears it and suddenly his whole body becomes  _aware_  of how close the act is becoming.  Soon, he thinks to himself, he's going to carve out a little piece of his soul and send it straight to hell to wait for the rest of him.  His heartbeat is rushing against his sternum, and he feels it as a twitch in his neck, too, fluttery and annoying.  Other than that, he feels nothing.  His mind is made up, and he knows with absolute certainty that this is a trade he's willing to make.  The blood on his hands and the guilt he knows he's going to feel when it's all over are prices he has already determined to pay.  The fingers he'll be giving up hardly seem like a consequence in comparison.  His head feels clear, and as he sits, wanting to wait long enough to be totally sure there will be no fight, his heart begins to slow again, leaving him totally calm.  

When the panic in Mike's face starts to become more severe, Dustin lifts his weight slightly and is gratified to find no response.  He rolls off of Mike completely and stands at his bedside for another long moment, staring at him as his eyes dart back and forth, his body totally still.  "For what it's worth," he says finally, voice solemn and honest.  "I'll be sorry for this in a couple of days."  He puts his hand over Mike's mouth and pinches his nose closed with his other two fingers, waiting patiently for his eyes to slip closed, his body unable to fight the fall into unconsciousness.  Dustin doesn't want him making any noise, thinks it's a bonus that this way he also might not feel it as he dies.

Once he's sure that Mike is out, but still breathing, Dustin collects the knife from the kitchen, and sets everything on the bedside table.  He spends a few minutes arranging Mike's body in an approximation of how he might position himself to slit his wrists, and then takes one final, fortifying breath to steady his nerves.  There's no going back now.  

The bone dagger is sharper than he'd thought it would be based on its appearance, and it takes very little pressure to split Mike's arm open at the wrist.  It slides through his flesh like a warm knife through butter, and soon there is a clean cut all the way up to the soft inner fold of the elbow.  Dustin drops the arm to the side, as if it has flopped naturally away from Mike's body, useless as he bleeds out, and places the jar in a position to catch the flow.  He waits patiently until the jar is about half full, and then sets it aside and works on the other wrist, realizing that it will be more difficult to collect the blood, and deciding to turn Mike onto his side, as if he had left his arms to hang and bleed out more quickly after cutting himself open.  That done, he places the jar back into the stream until it's mostly full, and then puts the lid back on and shoves it into his pocket, ignoring the heavy weight as he goes to finish staging the scene.  

He puts the kitchen knife in Mike's bloody hand, carefully wraps his fingers over the handle, making sure not to leave his own fingerprints on the knife, or in the blood on Mikes skin.  Then, he lets Mike's hand hang again, allowing the knife to slip to the floor in as natural a way as possible.  He doesn't forge a note, because he doesn't think it's worth the risk of messing up the handwriting, and he thinks anyone who knows Mike well enough will believe that he's volatile enough to have chosen this and acted on it quickly, without even thinking to leave a note. 

It will be a tragedy, but not one that anyone will question, especially not after what happened the night before.  Everyone will expect that Mike's guilt was too extreme, that it took over him in the moment and led him to make a brash decision.  It's a lie Dustin won't have to put any effort into perpetuating, which will be good, since he fully expects to be paralyzed by his own guilt for quite some time.  

It doesn't take long, after he finishes all of his tasks, for Mike to stop breathing altogether, for his body to start looking ashen and translucent the same way Steve's does, the puddle on his floor already going dark and sticky.  Dustin stays a few minutes longer, just to be sure, tests for a pulse under his jaw, wary of leaving any evidence, but wanting to be certain Mike is dead before he leaves the room.  When he's as convinced as he thinks he can possibly get that Mike is fully gone, he makes his way back towards the door.  He picks up his shoes in his wildly shaking hand, and peeks silently out into the hall, confirming that the house is still asleep before stealing back downstairs, forcing himself to be careful again of any creaks.  He pauses at the bottom, just as he had before, to ensure that Mr. Wheeler is also still out, and then makes his way to the basement again.  He doesn't lock the door behind himself, but he thinks that's easy enough for them to rationalize away as someone having forgotten, is pretty sure they won't even be able to think that far into it once they realize what's happened.

He stays hidden as much as he can, making his way back to the main road, trying desperately to keep his pace even and calm, despite the tremor rapidly spreading through his entire body, adrenaline and exhaustion finally forcing his muscles to give way, and in the wake of it, allowing his humanity to slip back into the cracks, vicious and stubborn, until Dustin realizes he's struggling to breathe as he walks along the treeline beside the road.  He thinks of Steve again; reminds himself how much more horrifying Steve's death had been, how he'd been in agony the whole way, terrified and guilty, still selflessly thinking of Dustin even in his last moments.  He thinks of how gentle it was for Mike in comparison, the momentary fear of wondering what Dustin might be up to barely a blip when compared to Steve's pressing and excruciating cognizance of his own impending end.  Never has he  _wanted_  to kill Mike, but he feels secure knowing that, in the moment that he  _had_  to kill Mike, he did it in a way that limited his suffering - a gift the universe somehow decided to withhold from Steve.

His hands are steady again by the time he turns back onto Steve's driveway, the chill of the night and the persistence of his body's exhaustion the only factors in play, his humanity and anxiety repressed for the time being.  Humanity, he reminds himself grimly, is a thing best saved for when Steve is here, alive and warm under his hands; and if he is forced to carve a chunk of it out of himself and feed it to the earth, and the gods, and hell itself in order to bring Steve back, Dustin is confident it's a sacrifice well made.

He doesn't waste any time setting about the task of removing Steve from the car.  


	3. Chapter 3

Dustin wants to bring Steve back in his own bed, wants to place him somewhere comfortable and familiar, so that when he wakes, he feels safe, and any hurts he has won't be a result of the handling Dustin has given his body.  He despises himself with rancorous force for the fact that he's just not physically capable of carrying Steve's frozen body up the stairs.  The rigor mortis should be starting to fade by now, he thinks, but Steve has been frozen nearly solid, and Dustin is fairly certain that will have slowed all the processes of death.  He thinks even if the rigor has faded, the freezing itself is enough to make Steve's body too stiff to maneuver up the stairs all on his own.

He decides to do it in the kitchen, because it's relatively close to the garage, and the tiles will be easy to clean afterwards.  He hates it, more than anything else he's done so far in this process, which probably says something about the current state of his moral compass, but he doesn't give a fuck about that.  He cares about Steve, and about making sure to ease his suffering, and prevent as much trauma as possible for him during what is, undoubtedly, going to be a highly traumatizing experience.  He wants to slit his own throat, knowing that he's about to fuck Steve on a hard tile floor, knowing that Steve is going to wake up and be bruising immediately, knowing that he'll be sore and cold, and probably scared, and Dustin will have to help him up and soothe wounds that he's probably going to put on Steve's body without even meaning to.  

He leaves Steve in the car while he gets ready, the ice all poured into the heated pool, so there won't be any evidence of it when Steve's parents come home in a few weeks, even if the weather stays freezing.  He knows he should bring Steve inside, so that he can start warming up, so that he'll be more flexible, his body easier to manipulate and harder to injure during the process that's coming next, but he can't stand the thought that Steve might know how fucked up he is about all this.  He can't control the shaking in his hands, or the sharp, cutting jut of his movements as he piles blankets and pillows onto the tile in a desperate bid to make it safer and more comfortable.  He doesn't want Steve to know how much he hates himself right now, how much he's struggling to do even the most basic thing to assure Steve's comfort.  Already, Steve is going to wake up and know that Dustin is a monster.  Dustin's not sure he can stand the possibility of him also knowing how much it hurt for Dustin to get there.    

He paints the circle using his fingers as a brush, dipping them into the jar of Mike's blood, somehow still warm, even though it's been sitting in the chilled garage for at least a few hours while Dustin was taking care of other things.  He doesn't think about where the blood came from, or the fact that he'll probably be getting phone calls in a few hours to tell him the bad news.  He doesn't think about the way the bone dagger had slid so easily through Mike's flesh, or how peaceful he'd looked as the life left his body.  He doesn't think about the panic, or the fear, or the betrayal in his face as he'd realized that he was paralyzed and Dustin's intentions were bad.  He doesn't think about any of that, because none of it fucking matters in the face of Steve being dead.  He doesn't want Mike to be dead, but he can't function if Steve isn't alive.  It's an easy decision, no matter how badly his conscience wants to play devil's advocate.

He mutters quietly as he paints the circle, unsure if he's supposed to be speaking his will through the whole ritual, or only while he fucks the body, or maybe only after.  He probably should've asked, but he'd been so busy clenching his asshole and trying not to run screaming, it hadn't occurred to him to seek further details, even as he was trying to make sure he had all the necessary information.  So, as he dips his fingers into his best friend's still warm blood and smears them over the floor of his boyfriend's childhood home, he mutters, quiet and angry, as if the rage in it will make the message more salient, or his demands more likely to be met.  "Bring him back," he says, and his tongue feels sharp like the edge of a razor against his teeth and gums.  "He should be alive.  He should never have died.  You took the wrong person.  Give him back to me."  He doesn't let the volume of his voice rise, doesn't want Steve to hear him through the walls, even though he feels like he could easily scream and wail, could roar and seethe and shriek until his throat bled and he spewed cancer and pollution from his split open veins.  Steve is dead, and he has no way of knowing what awareness he'll have when he returns, so he keeps his voice to a whisper, the venom of it stinging and burning as he spits the words into the air.  "I swear to fucking god, I'll burn this whole world to the ground if you don't give him back to me, and you'll never have anyone to take again."   

He closes the circle and still has nearly half the blood left.  He debates doing a second coat, or pouring it down the drain, but in the end, he decides to simply screw the lid back onto the jar and save it for later, just in case he has to try again.  After that, he rinses his hands in the kitchen sink and does one more look over the area to be sure he has everything set up the way he wants it.  He's made a small nest of blankets and pillows, large enough for the two of them to lay in, and hopefully soft enough to prevent any pressure damage on Steve's body.  The circle of blood is just wide enough to fit the bedding without anything escaping, and inside the circle he has also placed a truly phenomenally sized tub of lube that he'd purchased on the way home.  It would be something he would laugh at any other time, joking about who could possibly need that much lube and what they might be getting up to.  But today, he's not willing to risk any extra damage on Steve's body, not when he won't have Steve's reaction to tell him he's hurt, or any blood or bruising to indicate a tear.  He's going to be careful to a point of absurdity, and it's probably going to take him ages, but he's not willing to take the risk.

When he's sure that everything is as correct as he can make it, he goes to retrieve Steve from the car.  It's easier for Dustin to bear the weight now, with his muscles warm from being indoors, and his body flush with spite and rage once again, his incantation bringing new strength where he'd assumed he'd only been poisoning his own heart.  He carries Steve carefully, makes sure to turn his body just so to avoid knocking him against the car frame or any of the doorways in between.  His legs are still shaking by the time he gets him into the circle, and he's relieved to know that he really wouldn't have been able to get him up the stairs, even feeling renewed as he does.  He places Steve down carefully, hand behind his head as it lands on the soft pillow, making sure he's arranged in a way that falls naturally and would be comfortable if Steve were awake and aware.  He runs his hand over Steve's face, fingers trailing delicately across his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his lips, tracing all the paths his mouth usually follows, reverent and affectionate, because this is the vessel of the most important person in the world.  

He feels heat stir in his belly at the prospect of bringing life back here, where it so obviously belongs, and it makes him want to start, even though he knows there's still a fair bit of waiting to be had.  He needs to warm Steve at least to room temperature, needs to bring his body back to a point of flexibility that will allow Dustin to maneuver him without damaging either of them.  He starts by carefully removing Steve's clothes, hands as gentle as he can make them, even though the task is somewhat arduous.  He's short of breath and shaking again by the time he manages to bare Steve's torso.  Still, he's careful when he sets Steve's arm back on the blankets and lowers his shoulders to the ground, flinging the shirt across the room to free up his other hand to assist.  He takes it even more slowly with Steve's pants, peeling them down his legs an inch or two at a time, pausing to run his hands over the skin he's revealed every few minutes, just to check that it's still intact, as pale and discolored as it may be.

By the time Steve is fully naked, it's been the better part of an hour, and Dustin is sweating profusely, whole body feeling limp and noodley, like he's just finished a triathlon and now he's expected to run a full obstacle course.  He takes a minute just to breathe, sits by Steve's naked hip and places his hand flat on Steve's soft belly, fingers splayed over his navel and into the trail of hair leading to his groin.  Even like this, grotesquely pale and stiff like something manufactured as decoration or entertainment, Steve is beautiful.  Dustin remembers what this body looked like when there was life inside of it, blood flowing under skin, making him flush pretty like a peach.  He remembers how Steve writhes and moans, and begs for more when he's touched just so; remembers how he likes it even more when those vessels under his skin are burst and gushing, filling him up with color beyond a simple blush, until he's black and blue, yellow and green, a painters pallet mixed by Dustin's hand and ready to be stroked and played with until something even more beautiful comes of it.  

Dustin moves his hand upwards, running his touch feather light and a little afraid over Steve's ice cold skin until his fingers slot gently into place over the bruises on Steve's ribs.  They look entirely black when Steve is like this, his body drained of all the other blood, like Dustin's fingers are made of void and have driven that nothingness into Steve's body, marking him forever.  Dustin smiles, and leans down to put his mouth there, feels goosebumps burst out over his own skin at the temperature of Steve against his sensitive, chapped lips.  He licks at the darkest smear of bruising and swears he can taste metal underneath the surface, as if these small spots of hollow, empty black are the only thing still harboring life.  There's still blood there, even though it's run out of the rest of him, and Dustin can taste it, sweet like candy and the promise that this is going to work.  

He smiles and moves his mouth like a ghost across Steve's skin, brushing just enough to tickle himself until he reaches Steve's nipple and kisses him again.  Soon, he'll get up and grab a cloth, will set about cleaning Steve's body so that when he wakes, he will feel as fresh as he possibly can, but for now, he just waits, pressing his skin to Steve's and trying his best to give some of his warmth away.  He brings Steve's hand to his mouth, careful not to wrench the frozen, stone stiff muscles of his arm, and presses his lips to the knuckles.  "Come back to me, sweetheart," he whispers, and lets his warm breath ghost over the frigid surface of Steve's joints.  He speaks for the ritual, still unsure of when he's meant to say his intent, but also because this is what he wants Steve to remember hearing, if he has memories upon waking up.  He keeps his voice soft, calm and warm, just the way he would if Steve were awake and listening, looking up at him full of devotion and awe, the way he always does.  "I love you so much.  I can't do this whole life thing without you, so please, when the time comes, make sure you come back to me."  

He presses his cheek to the back of Steve's hand and stays there, lets his eyes drift shut and relishes the feeling of cold seeping into him, through his skin and flesh, into his teeth and his bones, so permeative it makes everything ache and grind.  He only smiles and turns his face the other way, letting the warmth of that cheek seep into Steve as well, willing to give him every last shred of it, if it means he can come back feeling whole.  "I miss you," he says, and the tenderness in him crawls up into his throat, filling his mouth with sticky saliva and making his eyes prickle and sting.  He puts Steve's hand back on the blankets and places his own hand on Steve's chest, fingers splayed flat against his sternum.  He can almost imagine what it would feel like to have Steve's heart beating there, firm and steady under his palm.  "I miss you," he says again, and feels a tremulous tear waver at the corner of his eye before falling and catching on the top of his lip.  "So please come back to me, okay?"  

He kisses him on the mouth, moves his lips as though there is a response, doing it just the way he knows Steve likes best and licking into him, happy to note that his jaw has warmed enough to move.  He tastes like the inside of a dumpster in summer, despite the chill against Dustin's tongue, but that doesn't matter.  All that matters is that he's beautiful, and he's Dustin's, and he's going to be alive again in just a few hours, so long as Dustin does this right.  

Dustin stays there with him for a long time, until his ass starts to go numb from sitting on the floor, and he no longer shivers just to touch the icy surface of Steve's body, the warm air around them slowly bringing him back to a point where Dustin thinks he's safe to carry on.  Before anything else, Dustin fills a large bowl with lukewarm water and finds the softest washrag he can, bringing both into the circle with him so that he can clean Steve's skin.  He runs it gently over all the places he's touched, wiping away the grime of battle and the residue of sweat and anxiety from his death.  He wipes it softly over Steve's chest and admires the way the water beads on the hair there.  He cleans his genitals, with all the care and tenderness that he has in the past, ensuring the pressure is steady but not firm, because when they have done this before, Steve has always been so sensitive and raw, strung out and coming down from treatment that anyone else might call brutal, but when it was Dustin doing it, Steve had only seen love.  

When he's finished with Steve's front, he changes the water and turns him over as gently as he's able, careful to rearrange his arms and shoulders so that nothing will be jarred or torn, and so that there will be no aching or bruising from having limbs trapped under the weight of his body.  He wipes delicately at the back of Steve's neck, scrubbing with as little force as possible at his hairline, where a hard line of grime has gathered, trapped by Steve's collar and the fall of his hair covering it.  He runs the cloth over Steve's shoulders and down his spine, cataloging every freckle and mole on his skin, taken as always with the constellations they form, otherworldly and bewitching.  Dustin has spent hours tracing paths between them as Steve lay beside him, breathing slow and easy, basking in the delicate attention and the knowledge that Dustin is just as happy to touch him this way as the other.  

He rubs his thumb over one of the more prominent marks, low on his back, always visible when Steve's shirt rides up, tantalizing and stark against his pale skin.  It's even more stark now, with Steve so drained and lifeless, his skin like tissue paper, not quite to the point of deteriorating just from a touch, but probably only a few days off.  He puts his mouth there, brushes his lips against the mole and tries not to shudder at the memory of Steve writhing up against him, knowing where Dustin's mouth is headed next, once he finishes tasting him there.  He wets the cloth again and continues on, running it softly down between Steve's ass cheeks, careful not to cause too much friction, only wanting to relieve him of the filth and sweat that are there after tumbling through so much dust, and ash, and death.  He spreads him gently, lets water drip down onto his hole, and then mops it up with the cloth, pressing softly, but refusing to rub.  He doesn't care if Steve is clean here for what comes next, isn't bothered at all to fuck him if he's dirty or soiled, has had his fingers, and his dick, and his mouth there at times when neither of them were exactly fresh and washed.  So long as he knows it's for Steve's benefit, he has no qualms at all, but he wants to make sure that Steve is as comfortable as possible when he wakes, and he thinks it's safe to assume Steve doesn't want any more remnants of his death than necessary lingering on his skin.  

When he's satisfied, he takes the cloth and bowl back to the sink and leaves them for later.  Steve is ready now, he thinks, warm and pliable enough that it won't be too damaging, even if there is still some lingering stiffness in him.  Dustin is ready too, feels flush with warmth, anticipation and nerves buzzing under his skin as his guts twist and slither, butterflies crawling all over his insides and sending him a little dizzy with want and fear.  It takes him a few minutes to decide how he will position Steve, wanting to be comfortable himself, in case it's a struggle, but also wanting to make sure Steve's body takes as little stress as possible.  He ends up putting Steve on his back, stacking pillows under his hips to make up for the lack of assistance on his part.  He doesn't want to have to look at the gashes in Steve's flesh that killed him, but he worries there will be too much bruising or strain if he tries to put Steve on his side, and he doesn't want to fuck him from behind if Steve can't look back at him, wide eyed and hungry, and tell him he wants it.

He settles himself between Steve's thighs, settles his legs delicately to the side, splayed enough to leave room, but not enough to make him sore in the hips when he wakes up.  It's not the best possible angle of access that Dustin could have, but he's unwilling to take it any further.  He'll take as long as he needs to be sure that Steve comes away intact, only ever injured by Dustin at his own request.  It's a little strange, to slide his fingers down over Steve's taint and into his crack, pressing at his hole and feeling no response, when normally he's so twitchy and desperate, squirming against Dustin, his hole fluttering when he's touched, clenching and unclenching quick and sweet, always so hungry to be penetrated.  It makes Dustin smile thinking about it, and he pets Steve's thigh with his free hand, leans down to kiss the inside of his knee, gentle and fond in a way that Steve always finds soothing.  "I'm going to be so good to you," he whispers into Steve's skin, like a secret.  "They won't have any choice but to give you back to me."  

He sits back and settles again, ready to begin in earnest.  He takes a long time opening Steve up, pouring generous portions of lube over Steve's crack and his own hand, refreshing any time he feels anything but an easy slide, so wary of tearing him that he spends nearly an hour just sliding his fingers in and out in an excruciatingly slow rhythm, desperate to feel Steve's body go loose around him.  It's strange and foreign, to be inside of Steve like this, to feel the walls of his body so cold and solid, tight like stone, loosening in increments so small it's barely noticeable.  Dustin's whole arm is sore by the time he works a third finger inside, equally careful, terrified to catch a nail on Steve's rim, or push too fast and wrench him in a way that would tear muscle in addition to membrane.  He's going to stretch Steve on four, the way he does when they haven't seen each other in a long time, when all Steve has had are his fingers and Dustin's voice over the phone line, and Dustin knows he's too eager, needs it too bad and will definitely take it hard enough to hurt himself.  Those times, Dustin always stretches him to four fingers, makes sure his body is ready for the intrusion, because Dustin's dick is thicker than three, and when Steve is that far gone, he doesn't account for the extra time and care needed after Dustin gets in him, has come away limping and sore, unable to take a shit without crying for days afterwards, but somehow still begging to go again.  

Dustin feels a small bubble of laughter expanding in his chest thinking about it, delighted and enamored, because Steve is so vivacious, so enthusiastic and ravenously hungry for the things Dustin gives him, it's impossible not to find him delightful.  He smiles, fond and pleased as he works his pinky into Steve's relaxing body along with the rest.  "God, you would be losing it if you were awake right now," he says, and the edge of sadness in it isn't quite enough to steal the warmth of his affection.  He turns his wrist to a more comfortable angle, the rotation gradual and easy, and pets Steve's hip with his free hand.  "You're always so sweet.  I want you to feel good when you come back."  

He swallows hard, and forces himself to keep smiling, to ignore the choking feeling in his throat reminding him that Steve is gone right now, and that he's technically doing this with a dead body.  It's still Steve, and he's still precious and beautiful and utterly worth the time and care.  Dustin is still going to treat him as though he can feel it, and make sure that if he's forced to relive the sensations of his absence, he'll finish the trip with an orgasm and the feeling of being touched by someone who loves him and knows his worth to the world.  Still, he shudders a little as he shifts to relieve some of the pressure on his knees and is forced to notice once again the raw meat showing through the split skin at the tops of Steve's thighs.  He feels nausea roll through him, and dreads the feeling of those wounds on his skin, knows he's going to feel it because it's too difficult to fuck Steve and not be close to him, too impossible to avoid holding him when he's inside of his body, because Dustin knows how much gratification Steve gets from being close, from knowing that he's loved and cherished by the person dismantling him into a whiny, shaking mess. 

"Fuck," Dustin whispers, choked up and fraught with the memory of Steve alive and in need.  He leans forward, splays his hand gently over Steve's pelvis, lets his thumb rest on the head of his soft dick, the knuckles of his other hand pressing at the precipice of Steve's rim.  "I love you, baby.  I love you, and you're going to feel good again.  I swear to fucking God."

There's no response, obviously, the silence of the room heavy and bearing down on Dustin's neck like an iron collar, chaining him to the devastation of the situation despite his determination.  He'd felt heat, before, thinking about the prospect of bringing Steve back, had thought he would be able to do it without  _too_  much struggle, despite the circumstances, but now he can't be sure.  He feels himself getting lost in the sensation of Steve being gone, feels the possibility that this might not work clawing up under his ribs, flaying the flesh from bone beneath his skin until his whole chest is ablaze, the fire of it sucking the oxygen from his lungs.  He pulls his fingers out of Steve's body, painstakingly aware of the sudden tremor in his arm, and relatively sure he's open enough anyways, with how gentle Dustin plans to be.  

His dick is soft, and he feels sobs building up inside his chest, rolling over each other, pitching and roiling, fighting to break out and send him into hysterics as he realizes that this is his  _only_  chance to bring Steve back.  The rage in him has evaporated, boiled off into vapor by the act of taking a life, and the tenderness he feels towards Steve, even when he's only here as a corpse, all the life and wonder of him gone, only the beautiful, exquisite shell of him left behind.  He presses his lube slick fingers flat over the gape of Steve's hole, the stillness of it, and the way it doesn't close in on itself just another indicator that Steve isn't here with him.  He looks at Steve's face, placid and soft, devastatingly beautiful even without the flush of color in it, his pretty bambi eyes closed like he's asleep, only Dustin knows that he's gone, and it's very possible he won't come back.   

He swallows hard and blinks furiously, smudging the tears pooling in his eyes into his lashes so that only a few escape onto his cheeks.  He has to try.  He knows there are powers deep enough and dark enough to make this happen, knows this ritual has worked before, well enough to be passed down as lore and knowledge to the woman who lives under a sky with no moon.  He knows the magic at work here is powerful enough to change the value of his hands, even if all he feels in the presence of it is bereft.  He looks down his own body, still clothed, and thinks maybe it would be easier to remind himself what sex is supposed to be if he stripped; reminds himself that his zipper will probably catch on Steve's skin and leave him raw and ready to bleed as he wakes up.  He leans down and kisses Steve where his thumb is, brushes his lips over the soft head of Steve's dick, only enough to gather a hint of the taste on his lips, and then leans back.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip and savors the connection for the briefest moment before rocking back further onto his feet so that he can strip, ready to wrangle his body into action, no matter how hollow his heart feels in the presence of Steve's conspicuous absence.  "The whole point," he reminds himself as he pulls his shirt over his head, voice clipped and derisive.  "Is that you are going to bring him back."  He throws the shirt aside and starts working on the pants, has to step out of the circle to avoid jostling Steve as he shimmies out of them, unused to the tight cut of Steve's clothes on his fuller body. 

When he's fully naked, he settles again, shivering a little in the cool air and wishing he could huddle for warmth with Steve, but not willing to let himself go down that spiral again.  Steve is coming back, because Dustin is going to do this, and the ritual is going to fucking work.  "I'm bringing you back," he says aloud, voice firm and unflinching, and he thinks that, as much as anything, will be the incantation that works.  

He touches himself tentatively at first, putting a small dollop of lube in his palm, and taking his dick in hand, feeling as though he's never done this before, even though he's well fucking practiced at it, especially with Steve living so far away right now.  It's just odd, he thinks, to need the assistance before sex, and it feels alien to have his soft dick in his hand when he knows the end goal is fucking.  Normally he's hard long before they even decide to do it, but he's determined, so he closes his fingers a little tighter, until he feels the thrill of it rolling deep in his belly, his asshole clenching pleasantly around the sensation.  It's not the easiest task, to let himself drop into arousal, despite the oppressive density of the situation lingering in the air, crushing down into him as he tries to free himself of the stress.  

It helps, he realizes with a stuttering breath, to think about Steve, and about their time together, about all the ways in which Dustin's body has awoken to him before.  Steve has given him everything, taught him everything, and held him aloft as he learned who he was and how to give what he wanted to give.  He remembers their first time together, Dustin's first time ever, how compassionate and careful Steve had been, laying himself open and letting Dustin have his way, correcting him gentle and kind whenever he fucked up, reassuring him against the embarrassment of his inexperience, making sure Dustin had known he was wanted just as much as he felt want.  He remembers his hands shaking violently as Steve pulled him close and helped to slip two of Dustin's fingers into his already loose body, pressing down against Dustin's hand and clenching at the same time, so Dustin could feel him moving from the inside as well, could feel the clench of his rim against his skin.  He remembers the way Steve had guided his wrist, shifting his hips to compensate for Dustin's poor sense of direction in his body, until suddenly he'd frozen, his breath coming up short on a moan and Dustin's name had sounded like a revelation pouring off his lips, followed close by a breathy, " _right there_ ,"  and Dustin had felt the urge to cry for how beautiful he was.  

He remembers, too, the way Steve had pulled him up close, and offered that he wanted to take it now, even though Dustin was sure he wasn't open enough.  How nervous he had been to cause real damage, even knowing the way Steve appreciated pain, and how soft Steve's face had been, broken over with a whisper of awe to realize again how much Dustin cared, because he was so unused to the feeling of being valued.  Dustin had kissed him, then, heedless of his fingers still in Steve's ass, or the awkward bend of their bodies meeting with his arm still in the way, overwhelmed and full of dire injury at the realization that Steve had been with people before who didn't value him, or his boundaries, or that pain could still be bad for him, even though he liked it at times.  Steve had arched into him, moaning hard in a way that had had Dustin worrying that his own orgasm would come before he even managed to get inside, virgin and excitable as he was.  Dustin had realized, as Steve's tongue met his in the kiss, that he'd bent his fingers at bad angle, pulled carelessly at Steve's hole until his muscles were wrenched and strained.  When they'd separated and Dustin had asked if he was okay, Steve had only begged to be fucked, nearly incoherent with it, even as he tried to make sure Dustin was alright as well, never wanting to push him into things before he was ready.  

It had been a revelation, to push into Steve's body, to be taken in and held, Steve's hands warm on his skin, his thighs pressed close over Dustin's hips, his whole body straining into their joining, hungry and all consuming, until the only thing Dustin had been able to feel was absolute devastation.  He'd looked Steve in the eye, had touched his face, fingers soft over the bow of his mouth, a kiss of a touch, and Steve's lips had parted, his tongue touching the tips of Dustin's fingers like a secret as he rolled his hips and looked back.  He'd come when Dustin had whined, his other hand clamping vicious and tight on Steve's hip, unable to stop himself from blurting out a watery, besotted, " _I love you_."  His whole body had gone still, arching up into Dustin, muscles taut and clenching, and his eyes had fallen shut, his mouth open as he whimpered and clung, his cum spilling hot between them, like a blessing where it had hit Dustin's skin.  Dustin had come then, too, unable to hold on, no matter how he tried, and Steve had taken everything he had, and then begged Dustin to stay inside as long as possible, so that it wouldn't leak out until later.

Dustin had cried, as they lay together, Steve wrapped around him warm and comforting, his whole body a cradle for Dustin's overwhelming emotion.  He'd kissed Dustin's forehead, and clung to him as though it was for his own comfort as well, whispering reassurances into his skin, telling him how good he felt, and how well he'd done, and how much Steve loved him, and wanted him, and  _needed_  him.  When Dustin had looked up, pulling his face from the solace of Steve's neck, he'd realized that Steve's eyes were glazed over with a sheen of tears as well, and he'd smiled, unbearably fond at the realization that Steve was a sympathetic crier.  

The memory settles in Dustin's body like morphine, rolling through his blood inexorable and acute, until everything in him is warm and cloudy, a steady rhythm of heat and relief moving through his veins and bringing his breath up short.  He's achingly hard now, dick heavy and twitchy in the circle of his fingers, desperate for more stimulation than he's giving it in the wake of his recollections.  He lets himself moan, quiet, even in the silent room, but enough to remind himself that he's here, with Steve, and that soon they will be warm again together, Steve's body alive and vivacious under Dustin's hands, if only Dustin gives him the love he so obviously deserves. 

It's not difficult at all to lean into Steve, to pour lube onto his dick, and over Steve's hole, until he's sure there will be no drag or pull, until he wonders if there will even be much for him to feel at all.  It's a bit of a shock, to press into him and feel how cold he really is, a sharp, breathtaking contrast to the usual heat, or even the warmth of Dustin's own hand in the chilly room, but Dustin doesn't let it stop him.  He puts a hand on Steve's hip, concentrating hard on keeping his touch gentle, and braces the other on the blankets under them, pushing in as slow as he can manage, shivering against the cold, hard, stillness of Steve's body.  His erection doesn't flag, though, fueled as he is by the memories of this body when it was alive and writhing under him.  He keeps his eyes open, lets them roam over the sharp angles of Steve's face, the soft planes of his chest, and dark smudges of Dustin's fingerprints on his ribs.  He rolls his hips, and is surprised to realize it feels good, despite everything, the barest hint of friction enough to make him clench and whimper.  

He moves again and realizes with a sort of dazzling clarity that he already feels close, as if his masturbation had pushed him up to the edge without him even realizing it, and now, with Steve's body around him, and the knowledge that his orgasm is the only step left in the process of bringing Steve's spirit back firm in his mind, his body is pushing, ferocious and hungry for completion.  He drops down onto his elbow, so that he's bent closer to Steve's body, rests his forehead lightly on Steve's chest, and lets himself breath hard against his skin as he moves, forcing himself to remain aware of the friction, even as he feels totally unable to achieve a rhythm, because his body is already stuttering and frantic, his orgasm curled tight in his belly.  He presses his mouth to Steve's skin, kisses him as he presses deep again, angling his thrusts towards Steve's pleasure out of habit and instinct, and knows that he's going to come just as it starts to happen.  

He holds himself as still as he can, hips pressed flush to Steve's ass, his orgasm tripping and tumbling through him, satisfying, but not exactly satiating in the way it usually is, as if his body is aware, despite itself, that Steve isn't here with him yet, and doesn't want to let itself have full pleasure from his vacant body.  It's strange, and a little uncomfortable, but Dustin's pretty sure coming inside your dead boyfriend's body isn't supposed to be something that goes off with no alarm bells ringing, so he just leans into the unease, and lets the alien sense of unsatisfaction and pleasure twist up inside of him as he breathes in the unsettling scent of Steve's cold skin.  

When he's finally finished, he doesn't pull out, too afraid to let the semen leak from Steve's body, fully aware that it's meant to be the reagent for the exchange.  Instead he holds himself steady, skin touching Steve's where their bodies are flush, but with no pressure applied, as he's supporting his full weight on his arms.  He looks at Steve's solemn, still face, and swallows hard around a sudden choking feeling in his throat.  "Come back to me," he says, one last time, a final incantation to seal the deal and make his intent known.  "I love you, Steve.  So please come back to me."

He realizes immediately that he has no clue how long this is supposed to take and panic starts rushing up inside of him, until he has to close his eyes, press his cheek to Steve's chest, and force himself to breathe at an agonizingly slow pace, because otherwise he worries he might pass out.  He feels himself going soft much faster than usual and tries to ignore the tide of anxiety lapping at the shores of his throat, filling him up with liquid dread until he's sure he's going to drown in it.  He can't let it come out, but he's so soft he can't stay inside of Steve anymore.  He pulls out and back as slowly as he can, keeping a close eye on things to make sure he's not dragging any of his cum out with him, and it's at least a marginal relief to realize that the angle at which he has tilted Steve's hips is doing the job, and there is nothing leaking out of him at the moment.  He sighs explosively, the way people in movies always seem to do when the apocalypse preventing action finally goes through and they can release their breath and relax at last.  Dustin feels the weight of Steve's resurrection more heavily than any apocalypse he's ever averted, and his heart is beating so hard and fast in his chest that it's painful, sharp like a dagger sliding under his bones, rattling jagged and vicious in an unpredictable rhythm.

He collapses back onto his ass, pressing his hand hard into his chest in a futile effort to ease the ache of his heartbeat, and tries his best to focus on breathing, eyes pinned to Steve's hole, watching for any sign of leakage, even as he feels his calm crumbling down around him.  Everything he can do is done, and now all he has left is to wait, and wonder, and try to decide when exactly the point of no return might be.  He's going to kill himself if this doesn't work, that much he knows, but he hasn't yet come to any conclusion about when he will be certain it hasn't worked.  The anguish of the calculation is heavy, the knowledge that if he chooses the wrong time, he could leave Steve resurrected and alone, could leave his mother to mourn him for no reason.  But still, he knows his life will have to end if all this was for nothing, knows there is so little left of who he was, that if Steve isn't here to make him human again, his life is over anyways.  He's a monster, and Steve is the only good or pure part of him left, so if Steve doesn't return, Dustin will have no choice but to destroy himself as recompense for his sins.  

He tries not to think about what might happen if Steve returns to him and judges him unworthy of love, now that he has sacrificed every moral he ever had for the sake of his own selfish need to have Steve be alive.  He tries not to think of what it will mean to tell Steve that he killed someone, that he killed  _Mike_ , for the sake of Steve's life; that he made the decision on Steve's behalf, without any care for how it might make him feel, because to Dustin, the world doesn't count as anything if Steve isn't in it.  He tries not to imagine the way Steve's face will twist and crumple when Dustin confesses to how he desecrated his body, using him and taking him without consent, despite his promise that he would never do such a thing, not after the way Steve had been used before.  He tries not to think about Steve coming back to him, full of the knowledge of Dustin's sins, and looking at him with fear, or hatred, or contempt.

He puts his hand on Steve's ankle, wraps his fingers gingerly around, running his thumb lightly over the knob of bone there.  "I'm sorry," he says, and chokes so hard on it that he has to cough and sputter, pulling his hand back like he's been burned, for fear of clenching his fingers and hurting the body.  "I'm sorry," he gasps again, and feels tears welling up with such force he has no choice but to begin crying immediately.  "I'm a real piece of shit."  He pulls his knees to his chest, curls in on himself as tightly as he's able, resting his chin on his knees, hiding his face in the fold of his arms as much as possible, but unable to look away from Steve's body, hope and terror dancing inside of him until the tread of their steps feels like necrosis in his organs, the pain so powerful he thinks it's feasible he may lose consciousness soon.

He killed Mike.  He killed him and didn't even feel bad about it, didn't even struggle or panic, just showed up in his room and took his life as if it was nothing, and now he's realizing he's not even sure it was _for_  anything.  The witch, he thinks, with a sort of dawning horror lapping at his aching chest, could very well have been fucking with him, performing some ritual of her own where the price was duping someone to atrocity.  It's certainly in line with the type of magics she works with, the type of power she radiates.  He hears himself keen, a jagged, sawing noise, like metal against metal, sparking and screeching until all anyone hears from it is pain.  He feels the raw, scraping friction of it growing in his chest, pushing through his tight throat, choking him as it goes, growing and writhing until it explodes over his tongue, ripping at his flesh until he's sure his mouth will be full of blood if he opens it.  

Instead, he swallows, pressing his teeth together hard enough to feel like they're cracking, and tries his best not to make the sound again.  It's only been a few minutes, he reminds himself, fingers wrapped so hard over his own elbows that he feels his flesh going soft and broken underneath, reminding him of all the things Steve loves so much, except that his own body is ill suited for the pain, or the long lasting consequences, always so slow to heal and so crotchety about functioning in the interim.  He deserves the pain anyways, he acknowledges, and doesn't make any effort to loosen his grip, choosing instead to focus on his breath, pulling it in hard and deep, until his nostrils burn with the smell of blood, and lube, and sex, and death.  

It doesn't matter, he reminds himself, what Steve thinks of him when he wakes up.  It doesn't matter if he thinks Dustin is a monster, if he's disgusted, or angry.  It doesn't matter if he never wants to see Dustin again, so long as he's alive, so long as he has a chance to live for a little while longer, to finish his life the way he wants, or to let Dustin revive him again.  Nothing matters, so long as Steve gets that chance and knows that there is no guilt on his shoulders, because Dustin is the one who shed his soul and filled the empty place left behind with evil instead.  Dustin is to blame, and so it means nothing if Steve blames him, as long as Steve gets the chance to live, just a little bit longer.  

The thought brings a little peace, lets him breathe more easily, and lets his heart slow, still pounding a hard, punishing beat against his bones and flesh, but not quite so fast that it's unbearable now.  He still has the dread in his blood that this might not work at all, but at least he can feel secure knowing that if it does, then whatever happens going forward doesn't matter.  So he sits, curled in on himself until he's as small as he can become, and he watches, vigilant and terrified, nausea rolling through his guts, body sore to the point of torture, exhausted and afraid, guilty and utterly dehumanized, and yet somehow full of hope.  Whatever comes, he has no regrets, knows he could've done nothing differently; knows he had to  _try_  before resigning himself to death and the world to existence without Steve's presence; knows that, as much as Mike will be missed, and the guilt will live like a bird in the cage of Dustin's ribs, feeding on his flesh until the day he dies, he's made the right choice.

He presses his teeth into his arm, biting hard enough to bruise, but not to draw blood, and when he pulls away, the saliva strings from his lips to his skin.  "Come back to me, Steve," he says, one last time, voice steady and heavy in the stale air around them.  "I love you." 

Whatever else happens, he tells himself, that's what will see him through.


	4. Chapter 4

There is darkness all around him, a solid, undulating thing, pressing in against him until it feels impossible to move, or breathe, or think, except to wonder if the impossibility didn't actually come first, summoning the darkness to him until he was rendered totally powerless to rescue himself.  He's afraid, and in pain, and can't remember anything of who he is or how he might be able to feel hope again, can barely remember what the concept of hope really means, except that he's sure it would be something to bring him relief from this neverending, oppressive, painful darkness.  He wonders why he's here, how he ended up in this place, where nothing exists, except somehow he is still conscious.  He is nonexistent, but somehow, he exists enough to know this sensation of nothingness, to feel it gnawing at him despite his lack of a body, to know the agony of suffocation and atrophy in the pit of nothingness, despite having no physical form, no mind, no spirit, nothing to mean that he should be capable of suffering this way.  He wonders how he even knows that he is a  _he_ , and the curiosity of it feels foreign and unfair when there is no way for him to confirm his assumption, because he can't actually grasp onto any sort of thought as to what a  _he_  might be.  

He exists for a long time like that.  Or, at least, it seems like a long time, although he can't really be sure what that means either, doesn't know what a time is, or how it can become long in the first place.  Still, he exists, and it feels eternal, the crushing, viscous weight of the nothingness surrounding him, pressing into him and over him, reminding him that he is the only  _something_  there is, and he starts to wonder if perhaps he might go crazy, soon.  Then he wonders what that means, and why he keeps having these thoughts that are so incomprehensible, and yet somehow still make sense to him, in an abstract, foreign way, as if maybe he could've known what they meant if only the darkness hadn't pressed in on him again and stolen the meaning away.  It seems unfair, that he should be able to think, when there is nothing real to think about, except how everything is unreal, and why is he able to think at all when he's so certain this is meant to be  _nothingness_.

 

It's very clear that something is amiss, he decides, and then wonders how something can be amiss if there is no other something in the nothing but himself.  Maybe he is the something that's wrong.  If there are no other somethings here in this endless, eternal void of nothingness and nonexistence, and  _something_  is wrong, then it surely must be him who's wrong.  He turns the thought over in his mind and tries not to become distracted by the knowledge that, really, he shouldn't have a mind at all.  Not here, in this place, where everything is nothing and existence doesn't exist.  He thinks now would be the time that a sigh would be appropriate, but he can't be sure exactly what a sigh is or how to create it, since no sigh has ever existed in this place.  

He is wrong.  He is wrong, and the darkness is heavy and exhausting, even if he has no clue how it's possible to be exhausted when he has no form, no well of energy to draw from.  He only knows it's true, and he wishes desperately that he could reach out and touch -  _Someone_.  Who is Someone?  There is no one.  Ones don't exist.  Only he exists, and he has already confirmed that he is a  _he_  and a  _something_ , but somehow he knows, if only he could reach out he could find  _Someone._   Just there.  On the other side of the nothing, waiting for him just beyond the conspicuous and powerful presence of  _no one_. 

Someone, he decides, must be very powerful, to exist, even as an idea in this place of nothing and no one.  He wonders if Someone is also the reason he exists here, in this dark place, where he's sure he is not supposed to be.  He isn't quite sure if he wants to thank Someone, or if he wants to curse them (what is a curse? he doesn't know, but he thinks it must be the opposite of thanking.  He feels like it's the bad one, but feelings don't exist, so he can't be sure.  Surety also doesn't exist.  Only he exists, and all he has is a neverending sense of confusion, and the company of nothing.)  The longer the time becomes, however that keeps happening, the more he thinks he would never want to curse Someone.  

He's very sure, actually, and he clings to that surety, because it exists so thoroughly it might even be a separate something, completely different to him.  It is an  _it_ , not a  _he_ , and he cherishes it and keeps it existing with the power of his focus alone.  He doesn't want to curse Someone, he Knows, and it feels good to know something, when previously there had been no other somethings around for him to interact with in any way.  The more he focuses on it, the more he Knows it, the more real it becomes, and slowly, as the time becomes longer and longer, he begins to think another something, which could easily become a real  _it_  to keep him and the other it company.  He thinks not only does he not want to curse Someone, but that he may even  _love_  Someone.  And so he's forced to wonder again, what _love_  is, and why he is thinking of it, especially in relation to Someone.  But he Knows, as much as he knows  _it_ , that the love is strong.  It's not weak like him, or the other _it_.  It's strong, just like Someone must be to make all of these things, including him, exist in a place where existence is meant to be impossible.  

When the time is so long he's beginning to wonder how long a time can become, he realizes, with astonishment so powerful it immediately becomes  _another something_ , that there is light.  

-

He comes awake like recovering from drowning, coughing and in agony, his body racked with shattering, scraping breath that feels more like seizing than taking in oxygen.  He tries to curl in on himself, to relieve the stabbing, serrated knife feeling in his muscles, the way they're pulling and tearing around his laborious breathing, but he's frozen.  He feels tied down, or crushed, as if gravity is pulling his body to the ground with a force far greater than anything he's ever experienced before, as if he'd have to be some sort of Schwarzenegger dude, jacked beyond belief only to lift a finger.  It makes panic surge up in him, his heart beating so hard and fast he wonders how he's even managed to draw breath at all, wonders how it's not rattling around in his chest, slamming into his lungs, making it impossible for them to fill with air.  Then he thinks maybe that is what's happening, and that's why breathing hurts so much, and he starts coughing again.  He's dimly aware that he's screaming with it, the fear and pain and powerlessness all roiling up inside of him causing him to shriek and howl against the confines of his body and whatever is holding him in place.   
   
He feels a hand on his face, and realizes with another surge of terror that he can't  _see_.  He tries to open his eyes and realizes he's not even sure if he's succeeded, can't tell if the lids are moving and his vision is staying black, or if they're still closed, weighed down by the same force keeping the rest of him still, only movable enough to allow for the violent, keening coughs in his chest.  There's a voice, too.  At least, he thinks it's a voice, though he can't be sure, garbled as it is, his hearing muddy and wobbly, as if he's still plunged under water, his lungs filling up with the sensation of suffocation, even as his body fights to get the oxygen he needs.  The hand is gentle, warm and soft, pressed firmly against his forehead, but not enough to hurt, despite the way everything in him is hurting, the way he feels like his brain is expanding against his skull, ready to liquefy and drain out his ears and under his eyeballs if he doesn't get relief soon.  
  
He wishes fervently that he had enough control to press up into the touch. and hopes that the person is as benevolent as their hand feels, taking what comfort he can from the gentle stroke of a thumb against his clammy skin.  He doesn't think he's imagining the tenderness in the tone of the voice, even if he can't yet pick out any words.  It matches the touch, and he latches onto it, desperate for the comfort and safety of someone else taking care of him when something is  _seriously fucked up_  with his body right now.  He wants to speak, wants to mumble out a thank you and tell the person that he can't see, can barely hear, is in pain and unable to move, but somehow, he can't fathom the process of making words come out.  There is a disconnect, and as much as he can conceptualize the process in his mind, he's unable to force his body to follow through.  He feels fear roaring up inside of him again, and does his best not to start coughing all over, to use what little control he has to stay in contact with that gentle hand, and to be soothed by it as he waits, because there's nothing else he can do, and he simply has to hope that waiting it out will change his circumstances. 

When something does finally change, after what feels like an eternity of laying motionless, trapped in his own body and trying desperately to just  _breathe_ , it's that he recognizes the voice, which has been running at a constant, low rumble in time with the soft movement of fingers through his hair, comforting despite the distortion.  It's Dustin, he realizes, a sudden flood of recognition howling through him, rushing up hot in his veins and filling his chest with a sort of cottony, comforting warmth that reminds him of safety, and happiness, and everything being okay.  He wonders how the fuck he managed to forget that Dustin is someone he knows, wonders how it took him so long to recognize a voice that is so familiar to him it almost feels like part of his own DNA.  He thinks something really fucking bad must have happened for him to have forgotten, and he's grateful that Dustin has been here to watch over him in the interim, confident that if he ends up being okay, it's entirely thanks to Dustin's protection and care.    
  
He feels calmer, after realizing who it is that's with him, despite the continued feeling of aching restriction on every part of him, the acute knowledge that he can't currently communicate, and that something catastrophic is going on with his body.  He feels his heart slow, and with it, the ache in his chest recedes, leaving him sore and tired, but able to breathe with much more ease, so that his lungs feel abused but not broken, and his throat, raw as it may be, can stop spasming around every inhalation, can stop sputtering and choking on each exhale.  He tries again to open his eyes, and realizes this time that he  _can_  see, but had simply been unable to command the lids to move before.  It's blurry, the light of wherever they are too harsh for him to do much more than squint and notice a vague Dustin shaped blob before squeezing them closed again, but it's progress, and it helps him relax even further.  Whatever is happening, or has happened, he's getting better, not worse, and Dustin is here to watch over him while he's vulnerable.  He's safe, whatever the situation may be.    
  
Suddenly, he's awake again, sharply aware of his renewed consciousness, despite not having noticed his loss of awareness in the first place.  He blinks, and the light doesn't seem so harsh this time, Dustin's face blurry at the edges, like seeing him through a dirty window, but still very obviously  _Dustin_.  His voice is clearer now, too, the words distinguishable and coherent, despite the far away feel of them.  He's looking at Steve with a sort of aching tenderness about him, clearly worried, but trying to put on a brave face as he says, quiet and easy, "Hey, Sweetheart.  Take it slow."  And when Steve goes to roll into him, drawn to the warmth radiating off of him, and the comfort of his presence, his body obeys, lets him curl tightly against Dustin until his face is pressed against the soft curve of his hip, arm wrapped over his waist, hanging on like his life depends on it.  

Dustin is warm, and naked, which is a little peculiar, but never something Steve will complain about.  His body goes noticeably looser when Steve turns into him, as if he's been just as terrified as Steve had felt; as if he hadn't known what was happening with Steve's body either and was anxiously waiting for signs that he was okay.  Steve nuzzles closer, nose pressed tight into the soft crease of Dustin's waist, and he makes a concentrated effort to produce a sound, unsure yet if his body is ready for speech, but wanting to verbally acknowledge Dustin's words, and his presence, and the security he's given Steve.  It comes out grating and deep, as if Steve's body has been in stasis and the parts of him dedicated to producing sound are atrophied and broken.  It feels like he's been screaming for years, and the pain of it almost steals his breath again, but he keeps himself in check, manages to clamp down on the full body flinch before he goes tight against Dustin, and hopes that, even if he noticed, he won't be too worried, since Steve has been able to control the worst of his reaction.  

Dustin's hands are both on him now, and he's curling around into Steve as best he can while Steve is laying down and he's sitting up.  It's a poor mimicry of a hug, but still, it feels wonderful, soothing and full of relief for Steve, the hands on his skin warm where he feels terribly cold, the proximity of Dustin's body a luxury that Steve suddenly realizes he may very well have come close to losing, if he's this fucked up by whatever happened.  He clings tighter and tries again for more noise, mouth open against Dustin's skin as he makes several desperate, croaky sounds.  

Dustin shushes him gently, hands running over Steve's shoulders and back, across his ribs and into his hair.  "I've got you, baby," he says, and sounds like he's fought a thousand wars while Steve has been unconscious.  "You're gonna be okay.  I've got you."  

Steve opens his mouth again, presses his teeth and tongue into the skin at Dustin's hip, and hopes it will be a comfort to him, wants to ease the exhaustion and trauma out of him until he doesn't sound so much like a veteran waiting for the other shoe to drop.  If death had a taste, Steve thinks it would be remarkably similar to how Dustin's skin tastes now.  Granted, his mouth isn't exactly a field of daisies at the moment, but as he laps delicately at Dustin's hip, he tastes dirt, and blood, and sweat, pungent and sour with the tinge of pain and anxiety.  He tastes rotten and old, and Steve wishes with everything he has that he could take away whatever stress he's gone through.  He can't even remember what happened to lead to where they are, but he knows it must have been harrowing for Dustin to sound like he does, to taste like he does, to look like he does.  

When he tries to speak again, the words come out in a jumble, syllables running together and over each other until the words sound more like marbles rolling around in his mouth.  But still, it's more than he was able to manage before, and he thinks it's progress, feels Dustin's excitement for his effort in the way his hands go firmer on Steve's body, the way he scoots away a little so that he can look at Steve's face, expression so full of hope it's excruciating to look back.  Steve does it anyways, stares up into Dustin's face and doesn't look away, despite the haunted pall about him, the nearly black smear of hollow under his eyes, the pale wash of his skin under a greasy, dirty layer of grime, the way his mouth looks thin and peeling, despite how plush it usually is.  Steve looks at him and feels the pain of it more thoroughly than any ache his body is able to provide, more than the stabbing rush of fear and powerlessness, more than the sore, open wound rawness of his throat and lungs.  He forces his arm up, has to stop and rest with his hand on Dustin's shoulder before he can raise it further to drag his fingers over Dustin's cheek, totally lacking in finesse and fine control, but with enough intent that he thinks Dustin will understand. 

Dustin catches his fingers and holds them there, pressing his cheek into Steve's hand like it's the only thing keeping him alive at the moment, his eyes sliding shut as his face crumples into abject despair.  The sound he makes reminds Steve of the time he took a class trip to the slaughterhouse and didn't eat beef again for months after, until his father got fed up and forced him to have a hamburger.  It's the same sort of sudden, shrieking anguish the cows had put out, with the same excruciating cadence of terror and helplessness, and it makes everything in Steve twist and slither, begging him to  _do something_ , because this is  _fucked up_ , and Dustin should never feel this way, should never be capable of making such a sound, especially not  _because of Steve_.  Steve groans, half in distress and half from exertion as he pushes himself to a sitting position, every muscle quaking with the effort, not yet ready to move this way or support this kind of weight, not ready to fight the resistance provided by gravity, but all striving desperately for the goal anyways, because everything in him knows that it's more important to comfort Dustin right now than obey the laws of physics.

The feeling of tearing and breaking under his skin is enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he pushes on anyways, leans forward into Dustin and presses their foreheads gently together, controlling the pressure with a sort of iron refusal to slip that has the rest of his body shaking with the effort.  It's worth it when Dustin opens his eyes again and his expression is displaced ever so slightly by oncoming wonder, as if he genuinely can't believe what he's seeing, or maybe thought he'd never see Steve move again.  Steve wants to smile, to reassure him even further, but he can't quite manage it, too overcome with the pain of his movement, only just able to keep himself from falling into a full grimace as he bumps their noses together with as little force as possible.  "Dusty," he croaks, and is proud that it comes out at all, even if anyone could be forgiven for having no clue what he's said.

Dustin's eyes light up, though, as if it's the greatest wonder he's ever experienced, to hear Steve say his name in that broken, grating tone that barely qualifies as human speech.  He puts his hands on Steve's face, thumbs brushing in gentle strokes over the apples of his cheeks.  "Steve," he says, and the grief in his voice makes Steve wonder if they will ever really recover from whatever has happened.  He thinks the answer might really be no when the next thing that spills out of Dustin's mouth is a whisper quiet, "I'm so sorry."  

His immediate response is rebellion, a steadfast surety that Dustin has nothing to apologize for, even though Steve has no real grasp on the situation, or really anything that's happened.  The last thing he remembers is standing in the parking lot of a local strip mall, ready to barge in and close another gate to hell, the whole upside down club scattered out around him.  For all he knows, everyone is dead, and Dustin is at fault.  But still, he doesn't think Dustin could ever do something that warrants the level of guilt in his tone, or the shame in his face when he leans back away from Steve and refuses to meet his eye.    
  
Steve swallows hard, and then again, because his throat feels dry and bloody all at once, and he thinks every word is going to come up like a razor blade, slicing all the flesh it touches along the way.  He takes a breath, sharp and deep, almost a gasp, except that it was intentional, trying to draw in enough air to say it all in one breath, afraid that he'll get halfway through and be unable to speak anymore.  "What happened, Dusty?" he asks, and has to collapse forward, leaning into Dustin's body and panting when he finishes.  He feels like he's given a long winded speech, but in reality, it's just the effort of holding himself upright sapping him of all his endurance.    
  
Dustin holds him, supports his weight and keeps him steady, even though Steve is sure he wants to shy away, feels it in the way his grip is twitching, his palms sweaty and hot, even compared to the rest of him.  "You died," Dustin says, strangled and rough, and it makes Steve's heart jump into his throat, terror washing over him until his whole body feels broken out in gooseflesh and there is a sudden bloom of sweat dripping from his armpits.  He clings harder to Dustin and tries to concentrate on breathing.  Dustin's breath hitches, and Steve hears his sob rattling around inside his own skull like a terrified bird, his ear pressed close to Dustin's chest.  "You died," Dustin says again, and this time it's high pitched and fractious, distorted around the beginnings of tears.  "And I did horrible things to bring you back."    
  
Steve does his best to hug him, tries with everything he has to twist his body against its will until his arms are around Dustin's torso and his face is pressed up closer to his neck than his chest.  His legs feel numb, and he's not sure if it's the position, or the stress, or maybe just a consequence of apparently being brought back to life.  He squeezes as tight as he can, and tries desperately to relay comfort despite his own calamitous unease.  He believes it without reservation, knows that Dustin would never lie about something like this, recognizes the distress in his voice as devastatingly sincere.  He feels like he's been dead, too, he realizes, his body slowly coming back to life over the course of hours, the feeling of drowning the closest metaphor his mind could conjure.  

Dustin is holding tightly to him, and Steve is sure he's not aware of the ache he's pressing into his already ragged nerves, thinks he's probably just so hysterical he has no cognizance of his own actions.  "You're going to hate me," he gasps, and Steve can tell now that he's crying for real, just from the sound of his voice.  He wants to sit back and look at him, make eye contact and reassure him as he wipes away his tears, but he doesn't have the control or endurance for the movement, and doesn't want to lie to him either, can't be sure what Dustin might have done.  He wants to believe there's nothing Dustin could've done that would make Steve love him less, but he also doesn't want to make any promises or assurances that he will have to renege on later.  Instead, he just holds on, presses his mouth up against Dustin's thready, uneven pulse, and tries to offer him comfort while he cries.  

Dustin weeps for what seems like a very long time, and Steve is sure, as he does his best to soothe, that this is more than just the stress of his impending confession.  He thinks Dustin has probably held it together for a very long time, has probably prevented himself from mourning, or acknowledging his pain in any way, in favor of ...doing whatever it was that he did to bring Steve back.  He thinks it's incredible that Dustin was able to do anything at all, and wonders, if their positions had been flipped, if Steve would've been able to do anything other than lay down and die next to him.  He wonders, too, how long he's been gone, how many hours, or days, or even weeks it might have been that Dustin has been pushing himself, forging a path forward, because he refused to let Steve stay dead.  He can't help but feel a sort of consecrating awe at the thought, his whole body warmed and relieved by the overwhelming knowledge of Dustin's strength and devotion.

It makes it easier to push himself back out of Dustin's grasp, to ignore the way his muscles are shaking and ripping under the duress of the movement, and to take Dustin's face in his hands, gentle and sure.  Dustin's breath comes up short with the surprise of it, his sobs petering out into a sort of hiccuping stutter of breath as his eyes go wide and surprised.  Steve smiles at him, forces his face to break and shift around it until he knows his expression is soft, a tinge of sadness about it, because he can't stand to see Dustin suffering this way.  "How long has it been since you slept?" he asks, and his voice cracks on every word, but still it comes out, and it's good enough.  

Dustin stares at him for a long moment, sniffling and confused, tears still leaking over Steve's fingers, snot running at a steady pace over his lips, and then takes a big, hitching breath.  "Maybe four days?" His voice rises at the end, like a question, like he can't really be sure how long it's been, and Steve remembers how he had seemed sleep deprived and weary even before they'd gone to do whatever it was that had ended up killing him.  He remembers Dustin's tired relief when Steve had arrived, and he remembers how sure he had been that Dustin would never have asked him to come in the first place if he weren't too stressed to handle it on his own without losing his mind.  

Steve runs his thumb over the arch of Dustin's cheek, mostly just for the sake of touching him, but wiping gently at the tears as he goes.  He doesn't know how he's going to feel after Dustin tells him what he's done, but he knows that now, with Dustin in front of him, looking closer to death than Steve feels, even though Steve actually just died, all he wants is to let Dustin  _rest_.  He swallows, trying to clear the scraping ache from his throat, and forces himself to speak again.  "You can tell me everything after we sleep."  He tries to convey with his expression, as clumsy as it may still be, that he loves Dustin  _now_ , even if he may not after, and that he wants to use that love to give Dustin a moment of respite, to give him the time and energy he will need to deal with whatever consequences may come next.  He wants to let Dustin recover and to have him feel loved while he does it, even if neither of them can be sure the love will last going forward.  

Dustin's face crumples again, his mouth flinching down into a tight frown as tears visibly start to flood up in his eyes again.  He nods, and Steve can see the agony in it, can see the way Dustin understands exactly what Steve is trying to do and why, can see the way he's dreading the possibility of losing Steve's love.  Steve dreads it, too, feels it like a slab of rotten meat decaying in his belly, infested with maggots and writhing with the putrid happenings of decomposition.  It makes him want to heave and vomit, to force it out of his newly resurrected body until he can know for sure that all he will ever feel for Dustin is love, devotion, and gratitude.  Instead he clamps his mouth shut and breathes as steady as he can through his nose, until he's sure he won't accidentally puke.  "Let's go to bed, Dusty," he whispers, and it's still cracking open on itself, but that doesn't matter now.

Dustin nods again, slips out of Steve's grasp and stands on wobbly legs, taking a moment to steady himself before he reaches out and offers Steve his hands.  It's an effort to get up, even with Dustin bearing most of his weight, but they manage it, and Dustin holds him steady for at least a few minutes before they try to move again.  Steve tries his best not to think about what's been painted on the tile, wonders if maybe he'd feel evidence of what Dustin did if his body were a little more in sync with his brain.  He thinks it's for the best that he still can't really tell anything about his physical state outside of weakness and pain.  

The stairs are an arduous process, and twice on the way up, Dustin offers to try to carry him, or to retire to the living room instead, but Steve only clings to him and shakes his head.  He knows Dustin is tired and weak, knows it will be a strain beyond imagining for him to carry Steve's weight, no matter how determined he is.  He also knows Dustin deserves a fucking bed, after everything he's been through, and Steve kind of feels like maybe he deserves one, too, considering he's been dead and all.  

The climb into the bed is easier than the journey to reach it, and Steve tumbles onto the mattress with a sort of relief that would make anyone think it'd been days since he's slept, even though, in reality, he's pretty sure being dead is like the deepest form of sleep one can achieve.  Maybe it's just  _that_  exhausting coming back from it, even though he can't really remember anything before that panicked feeling of drowning and being powerless to move against it.  Dustin helps him settle, his hands gentle and sweet against Steve's skin, making sure not to press or squeeze, and Steve loves him dearly for his care.  Once Steve is settled, Dustin takes a long moment just to look at him, the covers still only drawn to his waist, and then he reaches out and places his hand delicately against Steve's ribs, barely even a grazing touch, but still he aches from the pressure of it.  It's enough to make him look down, and he realizes with a sort of rushing warmth, that the bruises Dustin had put on him are still there, despite no other wounds being obviously present.  

He looks up at Dustin and tries his best to smile.  He doesn't want to ask how he died, or if his other wounds really are gone, so he just puts his hand over Dustin's and squeezes his fingers, content to be touched, and unable to summon any sort of dread at the idea that these marks may not heal.  Whatever comes of tomorrow, he thinks he will never be able to regret the time that he's spent with Dustin, or the way he's given himself over so completely.  He'll never regret the way he has trusted Dustin to give him pain, will always be thankful for the relief Dustin has given him over so many nights.  Dustin looks lost, dazed and terribly sad, eyes fixed on their joined hands, breathing heavy enough to be obvious, face cast down, every angle and curve of it sloping towards heartache.  Steve squeezes his fingers again.  "Come to bed, Dusty.  You can worry tomorrow." 

Dustin's eyes snap up to his face and his expression folds even further in on itself, as if it pains him to know that Steve is postponing their conversation specifically because he wants Dustin to be cared for right now.  Still, he nods, pulls his hand back and goes to crawl into the other side of the bed.  Steve shifts to make room for him, and then rolls over onto his side, ignoring the strain of the effort, determined to hold onto Dustin as well as he can.  Dustin looks surprised for a moment, but then he softens, and lays the rest of the way down, snuggling into the pillows and letting Steve press up along his back, spooning him to the best of his current, very clumsy abilities.  He rests his face as close to the back of Dustin's neck as he's able, nuzzles at his nape and says, as softly as he can, "I love you, Dusty."  

Dustin goes tense for a second, and then seems to relax all at once, pressing back into Steve as if his body is turning to jelly.  He puts his hand over Steve's where it's resting against his chest and snuggles down even further, as if he's determined to take advantage of what Steve is giving him now, especially in face of what may be coming.  "I love you, too," he says, and it sounds like an open wound, raw and bleeding.  

 


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up with his stomach cramping and growling, writhing around a wrenching hunger worse than any he's ever felt in his life.  He groans with the pain of it, and is at least cognizant enough to be thankful that his throat seems to have continued on the path back to life while he slept, because the only discomfort he feels there is as a result of his bone deep thirst.  He feels leathery and weak, and he wonders why the fuck he didn't think to eat or drink something last night.  Then he feels Dustin stirring next to him, and hears the quiet, confused grumble he makes as he wakes up, not yet fully aware of his surroundings.  With Dustin moving against him, groggy and confused, so fucking sweet in his pre-conscious ignorance of what's to come it makes Steve's whole chest feel full to bursting with warmth and fondness, it's easy to remember why he hadn't prioritized things his body wasn't asking for.  Dustin had been in front him, exhausted and pushed beyond every limit a body should reasonably have, ready to push even further if Steve forced him to do it, and Steve had been unable to abide the thought of it.  He'd wanted so badly for Dustin to rest that nothing else had really seemed to matter.

Now, though, with the sun streaming in brightly enough that it must be well past mid morning, and Dustin coming awake more and more quickly at his side, his body going tense and hard in Steve's arms as his brain catches up, Steve thinks it's about time that they take care of the basic needs, before anything else.  He flattens his hand over Dustin's belly and presses his mouth softly into the crook of his shoulder.  "Hang on," he says, quiet and raspy, but nowhere near as broken as his voice had been before their sleep.  "You can freak out after breakfast and a shower."  He kisses Dustin's naked skin again, nuzzles gently at his neck, and is glad to feel him relaxing, if only slightly.  "I promise,"  he says, aiming for gentleness.  "I won't make you wait any longer after that."  

Dustin's hand is sleep warm and gentle when it covers his.  "Okay," he says, quiet and agreeable, his voice gravelly and deep with the remnants of the night.  

Steve holds onto him for a little longer before kissing him one last time on the slope of his shoulder, pressing his hand a little more firmly into his belly, and then sliding back and away, blissfully grateful for the steadiness of his body and muscles, despite his gnawing hunger.  He looks down at himself as he moves to sit on the edge of the bed and decides that he is probably clean enough to go without a shower for now, wonders if maybe Dustin had cleaned him up while he was dead.  He thinks he must have if the level of grime on Dustin himself is anything to go by.  He looks over his shoulder and can't help the agonizing, fond smile that steals over his face when he looks at Dustin, tangled up in the sheets, turned onto his back and half stretching, half just laying there, eyes closed like he desperately doesn't want to face the day.  Steve loves him enough that it hurts, makes the beat of his heart feel like the jaws of a vise clamping hard and hungry around muscle and bone inside the cavity of his chest.  He reaches back to touch him again, because he can't stand the feeling of distance between them, yawning ever wider as the weight of what may or may not happen later in the day bears down around them.  

Dustin arches into it, drops his arm away from his face, and looks at Steve as though he's lost and seeing his face is the only way he can fathom to find a way home.  Steve does his best to smile through the misery of it, to give Dustin the guiding light he seems to so desperately need at the moment.  It's strange, he thinks, after so long of Dustin being the one in control, to see him so helpless again, young and small and ashamed, in need of guidance and care in a way that he hasn't been in a very long time.  The regression hurts like poison in his veins, corrosive and bitter, but like hell Steve is going to turn away from it after everything Dustin has done for him.  At least for now, he will do whatever he can to make sure they get through this.  He leans back a little further and turns so that he can reach to brush the hair away from Dustin's forehead, delicate and tender, wanting only to give him comfort.  "Why don't you take a shower while I make breakfast?"  He hopes Dustin will understand that Steve only wants him to be comfortable, that he would lay down with him forever, would press his skin, and his mouth, and his tongue against every part of him, no matter how soiled he was.  

Dustin looks up at him for a long moment, gaze roving over Steve's face, as if he's starving for the sight of him and fully expects to never be able to eat again after this moment.  Then he nods, licks his lips a little nervously and goes to sit up, nuzzling up into Steve's hand as it falls away, as if he doesn't want to dislodge him without some sort of acknowledgement that he appreciated the touch.  "Thank you," he says, and it comes out as more of a whisper, deep and quiet, as if Dustin is afraid to speak too loud.  

Steve nods and runs the backs of his fingers over Dustin's cheek one last time before turning to get up.  "Take your time," he says, and goes to rummage through his old drawers for something to wear.  Dustin is already in the bathroom by the time he finds something, so he just pulls on the old sweatpants and threadbare tshirt and heads down to the kitchen.  

It's an effort to ignore the place where he had woken up, to keep from kneeling down to examine the dark brown ring on the floor, or to think about  _why_  exactly there's lube there in among the blankets and pillows, in an amount that truly would be laughable in any other situation.  He can almost imagine the way Dustin's face would light up and then go impish and mischievous as he pointed it out, and it makes everything in him clench, hollow and distressed to realize that there is no such memory, and the situation was probably dire and serious.  He turns his back to the entire scene, refusing to even catch sight of it out of the corner of his eye, blocking his periphery with the refrigerator door when it's necessary for him to face that direction at all.  He drinks a glass of water, and then two more, feeling as if he could keep drinking forever and still not be satisfied, but not wanting to drink too much and puke it all back up.    
  
He forces himself to set the fourth refill on the counter for him to sip while he cooks, and goes about searching the pantry and fridge for something to make.  He comes up rather short, which is no surprise considering his parents have been gone the entire month, and is forced to settle on oatmeal.  He guesses it's probably as good a choice as any, especially considering how squirrely his stomach feels.  Dustin is probably equally in need of something easy and bland, considering how nervous Steve knows he is.  He makes three servings, because he's sure both of them are probably hungry enough to eat extra, but doesn't want to give them enough to gorge themselves on.  He does it on the stovetop, because he's making so much, and because he doesn't want it to be cold by the time Dustin comes down to eat, and the timing turns out alright.  He's just pouring it into bowls when Dustin shambles into the kitchen, hair wet and dressed in some of Steve's old clothes.  They fit him in a way that makes heat curl up tight in Steve's belly, clinging to him in all the places that would usually have Steve crawling into his space begging for attention.  Instead he swallows around the feeling, knowing full well that this isn't the time, and ushers Dustin out into the dining room to eat.  

It's a quiet affair, neither of them speaking, the sounds of spoons clinking on bowls and scraping against teeth the only noise to fill the gaping chasm between them.  It makes Steve's skin crawl, everything in him rebelling, terrified and uneasy, as if his fight or flight instinct has kicked in, only there's nothing to fight and nowhere to run.  He can only wait, and hope, and wonder if this is the last moment in which he's going to be able to really say that he loves Dustin, who is the most important person in his life.  The dread he feels crawling up in his throat makes him want to choke and cough, but instead he just swallows hard around it and refuses to let himself vomit.  

Dustin puts his spoon down with a sudden, firm clank against the rim of his bowl, and when Steve turns to look, his hands are clenched on the edge of the table, knuckles white, his gaze is pinned to the table in front of him as if he's physically incapable of looking anywhere else.  "I killed Mike," he says, with a sort of iron control that makes Steve's teeth ache just imagining the grind of it.  "And I fucked your body.  I came inside."  His face crumples around a grimace.  "It was a spell, from the witch.  I used his blood."  His knuckles go visibly whiter, and then his hands loosen and he pries them away from the table.  "I'm not sorry," he says with a tinge of petulance so acidic it could probably melt steel.  "I couldn't let you die."  He folds his hands in his lap with the same forcible control that's so obvious it's painful just looking at him. 

Steve looks anyways, stares for a long time, waiting for  _something_  to flood up inside of him and let him know that he's a good person who is rightfully morally outraged at what Dustin has done.  He can hear the second hand of his parents' grandfather clock ticking away in the living room and his heart seems to beat in time with it.  He swallows because his throat is starting to feel tight and there is a choking feeling gathering at the back of his tongue, but still no disgust comes, no anger or fear.  No shame.  He's surprised, of course, enough that his brain stumbles over the thought and barely comprehends it as a real thing that could've happened, but beyond that, he can't conjure any of the other expected emotions.  

 _Dustin killed Mike_.  He looks at Dustin for what must feel like an eternity, and as his mind turns the thought over and over in his head, all he can feel is a steadily rising tide of relief, and admiration, and sympathy, and  _gratitude_.  Dustin killed Mike,  _for him_ , and all Steve can think, when he forces himself to accept the idea as real, is that it's a good fucking thing it was him who died, because he never would've been able to figure out a way to make  _resurrection_  happen.  Dustin is incredible, and vicious, and powerful, and smart, and determined, and even though Steve knows, in some foreign, far away part of his brain, that he should be appalled and full of rebukes, he isn't.  He is only in love with him, desperately and excruciatingly full of affection and gratitude, hungry to reassure him and give him all the praise and thanks he rightfully deserves after he's gone through such a harrowing journey to bring Steve back.

"Dusty," he chokes, and feels himself tipping out of his chair before he even realizes he wanted to do it.  Dustin's head snaps up, and his face is full of confusion and surprise, even as his hands reach out on instinct to catch Steve, steadying him as he does his best to crawl into Dustin's lap, despite the shitty dining chairs not providing much room for such maneuvers.  He manages it with very little finesse, one knee balanced on the tiny sliver of chair that Dustin's not sitting on, his weight held by his arm braced against the back and Dustin's hands on his hips.  "Dusty," he says again, and it comes out desperate and pleading, like asking permission for an orgasm, only now all he wants is Dustin's mouth on his.  

Dustin only looks up at him, still painfully confused, hurt etched all through his features, as if he can't understand at all what is happening.  Steve  _aches_  for him, feels the hurt of it in every part of himself, his muscles sore and torn, his bones cracked and splintering, his organs bruised and liquefying inside the sack of his raw, peeling skin.  But Steve can fix it.  Steve can take away all that hurt and confusion and shame, because he  _loves_  him, and if Dustin's love is powerful enough to bring Steve back from the dead, then Steve's is powerful enough to keep them both alive in the aftermath.  He puts a hand on Dustin's face, rubs his thumb firmly against corner of his mouth where it's drawn sharply down in a frown, and then gentles his touch, cupping his jaw delicately as Dustin's face begins to relax.  "I love you, Dusty," he says, firm and sure, ready to repeat himself as many times as necessary for Dustin to believe it.  "Thank you."  

Dustin stares for another long, agonizing moment, and then his face brightens, slow as the break of dawn, fear and confusion melting away under a sweet, lovely wash of awe and hope.  Steve loves him with a sort of ferocity that makes him want to go out and fight everything that has ever made him hurt.  Instead he kisses him, presses their mouths together hard and savage, with so little finesse, he thinks he tastes blood in his own mouth from the abrupt cut of his teeth, but Dustin only whimpers, his hands going tighter over Steve's hips, molding the ache there into something beautiful and warm as his tongue sneaks into Steve's mouth, licking at the raw, bloody spot until Steve moans in return and drops his hand to Dustin's shoulder to cling.  

It's a sloppy kiss, quick, and cut off abruptly, because Steve has a sudden thought that needs addressing immediately.  "Do we need to do anything about a body?" he asks, and can't even find enough consternation to put a waver in his voice. 

Dustin looks shocked again, but there's less of an edge to it this time, as if he's just surprised Steve has the presence of mind to think of something like this.  "No," he says, and sounds a little far away, pleased, but distracted, and Steve thinks that's fair, considering they're talking about one of his best friends.  His face sobers a little as he adds, "I made it look like suicide."  He brings a hand to Steve's face, runs his fingers gently over his cheek and down the bridge of his nose, as if he's still somewhat surprised that Steve is actually alive again.  "You died protecting him," he whispers, and Steve recognizes equal parts admiration and rebuke in his tone.  "No one will question that he did it."

Steve leans into his touch, nuzzles softly at his fingers and lets himself enjoy the feeling of them, delicate and warm against his skin.  "I'm sorry," he says, sincere and full of remorse, at least for this.  "It must have been so hard, Dusty.  I'm sorry."  

Dustin smiles at him and it's full of cracks, but still somehow genuine.  "I couldn't let you die," he says again, softer this time, as if he's seeking absolution despite himself.

Steve nods, leans forward until their foreheads are resting delicately against each other.  "I know."  He bumps their noses together and then tilts so that he can kiss the tip of Dustin's nose.  "I would have done the same.  Except I probably wouldn't have been strong enough to figure out how." 

Dustin nods and Steve leans back so that he can look at him again.  He bites his lip and meets Steve's gaze evenly, a slight furrow in his brow.  "I know I should regret it," he says, confessional.  "But I really only feel guilty about how much I don't regret it."  He frowns and puts his hand on Steve's chest, fingertips resting over his heart, presumably seeking reassurance yet again that Steve is actually here and alive.  "I was going to kill myself if it didn't work, but I had to at least try first."  He tilts his head and his face is full of questions, as if he's not sure if Steve understands; as if he's a little afraid Steve will change his mind with the confirmation that Dustin feels no remorse. 

Steve pets his face, running his thumbs gently over his cheeks and then dropping his hands to rest at his neck, thumbs pressed firm against his jugulars.  "It's okay," he says, as if he has any authority to absolve someone of their sins.  It doesn't matter, he thinks.  He's sure the only forgiveness Dustin is seeking is from him, anyways.  "You found a way, and I'm grateful, Dusty.  I don't remember being dead, but I'm sure I couldn't have handled it for very long without you."  He kisses his forehead, a strange mimicry of authoritative affection, and then moves to kiss his cheeks instead, dragging his lips over the blush warmed skin and then moving down and pressing a last, chaste kiss into Dustin's chapped mouth.  "Let's go back to bed."  He relishes the way Dustin's breath rushes across his lips as it catches.  

They leave the dishes on the table and stumble their way through the kitchen, both a little clumsy, Dustin pausing at the pile of blankets on the floor to pick up the lube, and turning to Steve with a small, pretty little smile, nowhere near as bright as it might be some other day, but still a relief to see.  "I was so embarrassed when I bought this," he says, and there's enough laughter in it that Steve feels himself relax a little further, the small knot of stress in his chest loosening bit by bit the more confident Dustin's demeanor becomes.  

He smiles back, takes Dustin's hand in his, and says, quiet and warm, "Thank you for taking such good care of me."  

Dustin's fingers clamp tight around his and he looks away, soft and hurt.  "Of course."

Steve squeezes back and tugs gently at Dustin's arm, pulling him towards the stairs.   

Dustin follows him easily, face flushed and eyes downcast, as if he's a little shy, timid in the face of needing care after so long of being the one to provide it, but Steve just takes that as even more sign that this is the right way to do things at the moment.  He guides Dustin into bed, pushes him down into the pillows with very little force and runs a hand up his flank, coming to a rest at his hip as Dustin's thighs fall open to make room for Steve between them.  It's easy, then, for Steve to crawl up over his body, to brace himself with an elbow on the mattress and leave his other hand splayed wide over Dustin's ribs, pressed up under Dustin's shirt, the fabric bunched over his wrist where he's pushed it up.  Dustin presses into the touch and looks at Steve as if he's still totally lost, as if he doesn't know what to do, or how to do it, and is afraid to try, too worried about messing up.  He looks a lot like he did during their first time, and Steve feels affection and protectiveness unfurl in his chest, warm and soft, like a blossom of sunlight spilling out over all of his dark places, until all he can do is lean down to press their mouths together, tongue gentle and hungry at the seam of Dustin's lips.  Dustin whimpers and arches up into him, thighs coming up around Steve's hips as he opens his mouth and lets Steve taste him.  

They stay like that for a long time, Dustin clinging weakly to Steve, pressing up into him, hungry and sweet, hands tentative in a way that Steve isn't used to at all.  He can't ever remember Dustin hesitating so much, and it makes protectiveness surge up in him again, makes him want to do everything in his power to convince Dustin that they're okay, that Steve still loves him, that he doesn't have to walk on eggshells or be afraid to take what he wants.  Dustin whimpers when Steve pulls away, confused and hurt, and Steve hates it, leans back in to kiss him again, quick and easy.  "I'm not going away, don't worry."  He runs his thumb over Dustin's nipple and enjoys the way his breath catches on it, a small sound like surprise and heat squeaking out of him.

Steve takes his own shirt off first, dropping it over the side of the bed and smiling when he sees the way Dustin is staring, as if he's never seen him before and is in awe that they're here doing this.  He sits back on his knees, settling Dustin's thighs around his hips again and dropping his fingers to the hem of Dustin's tshirt.  He plays with the fabric for a quick moment, and then slips his fingers underneath, splaying them wide across Dustin's stomach.  "Do you want to take this off?" he asks, suggestion heavy in his tone.

Dustin nods, sitting up as much as he's able, and lifting his arms to let Steve pull the shirt up over his head.  Steve kisses him while he discards it, sucks gently at his lower lip until Dustin's hands are on his ribs, his palm pressing firm and warm over the aching stretch of bruises there.  Steve whimpers and presses closer, rubbing himself up on Dustin's belly as much as he's able, already mostly hard just from the relief of being close to him again.  Dustin gives a quiet moan in return and pushes a hand into Steve's hair, pulling gently as he leans back, bringing Steve down with him.  When their hips settle, Steve notices that Dustin is hard too, his dick pressed up against Steve's, warm even through all of their clothes.  When he drops his hand down between them and runs his fingers over the hard line of the shaft, Dustin's breath hitches, and he arches up into it with enough force to upset Steve's balance a bit.  Steve lets out a little huff of laughter as his elbow gives under the pressure.  

He doesn't make Dustin wait, doesn't want to force him to ask for anything.  Instead, he just pushes the waist of his own pants down around his thighs, clumsily maintaining the kiss as he does it, and then does the same for Dustin,  encouraging him to lift his hips to make room, and then pressing down against him as soon as he's able.  Dustin pulls out of the kiss with a sort of keening, broken noise that makes Steve's heart rush and stumble, his chest feeling full and overwarm, concerned and heartbroken.  He rolls his hips again and Dustin takes another hitching breath that sounds dangerously close to a sob, his face fallen in a sort of broken anguish, even as he arches up in counter stroke, rubbing their dicks together in a way that sends Steve's vision a little blurry with the feel of it.

"Dusty?" he asks, and it comes as more of a whimper than anything, confused and worried, but still so turned on he's not sure he can function without Dustin's body touching his right now.

Dustin looks up at him, eyes shining with what Steve suspects are tears.  "I thought I lost you."  And then he's crying for real, tears falling down over his temples into his hair as he looks up at Steve, presses his hips up, and puts his hands on Steve's body, reverent and wary, as if he's afraid to break him.  

Steve's heart shatters a little in response, and it's all he can do to lean down and kiss him again, sloppy and too open, because he's speaking also, pressing words into Dustin's mouth with his lips and tongue, saying, "I'm here," and, "I love you," and, "You did so good, Dusty," over and over again, frantic and full of need, desperate to convince him and have him feel safe and happy again.  

Dustin clings to him, keeps the hand in his hair, pulling just hard enough to be good, and moving his other hand down between them, wrapping his fingers around Steve's dick, and then his own as well, stroking them together in time with the steady roll of Steve's hips.  It's good, despite the drag of it, the friction of his hand a little dry, putting an edge of discomfort on it that makes Steve's guts roll and go warm with nerves, like his orgasm is already building, despite the short time they've been at it.  Dustin seems to know, too, can always tell just from the sounds Steve makes, or the way his body goes tight, because he's spent so long learning the cues.  He pulls away from the kiss enough to speak, and his breath is warm and comforting across Steve's lips when he says, "Will you fuck me?"  

He feels it like a punch in the gut and he comes away winded, sore and boneshatteringly pleased.  "Yeah," he breathes, and kisses Dustin again for good measure, aiming for quick, but devolving immediately into tasting him again.  He feels Dustin smiling into it, and more warmth blossoms in him, creeping under his skin until he feels tingly and light headed, like that smile is all he'll ever need to survive and thrive.  When he finally manages to pull himself away again, he feels dazed, dizzy, and maybe even a little bit high.  "Yeah," he says again, and is fully aware that it's dumb, but can't really manage to formulate a real reply.  

Dustin looks up at him, and finally,  _finally_  some of his confidence seems to have returned, because he's still smiling, and he looks fond and pleased, as if all it took to put him on solid ground again was to totally steal all of Steve's balance for himself.  Steve thinks he really doesn't mind, is happy to give away all of his own stability if it means Dustin feels strong enough to let Steve lean on him.  Dustin brings a hand up to touch Steve's cheek, fingertips trailing feather light and almost ticklish across his face, coming to a rest on his lips.   Steve can't help but stick his tongue out a little to taste them, wanting to have them in his mouth, but knowing full well he has a lot to do before he can get there.  Dustin hitches a quiet breath, and there's still little pools of tears at the corners of his eyes, but he sounds happy, voice airy and soft like cotton balls when he says, "You're so cute, sweetheart."

Steve feels his face go hot in response, is sure he must be blushing wildly, but he can't help but smile back, nipping gently at the tips of Dustin's fingers, startling a huff of laughter out of him.  When Steve leans back, Dustin lets him go without protest, watching with that same affectionate, indulgent look on his face as Steve shimmies the rest of the way out of his pants, and lifting his hips to assist with the removal of his own pants after.  When they're both naked, Steve takes a long moment just to look at him, to admire the way the light falls over him, the way he looks so soft and pretty surrounded by the mess of Steve's old sheets, hair fanned out wild and a messy on the pillow, face a little puffy and tear streaked, but fallen into a sort of sweet, calm anticipation that makes everything in Steve rise up at once, utterly sure that there is no one else he wants to spend his life with, no matter what blood may stain either of their hands.  

He puts his hands on Dustin's thighs, relishes the way he arches up into the touch and then drops down again, letting his legs fall open as he goes to give Steve more room to touch.  He's beautiful, hard and wanting, laid bare for Steve to take, and the surrender of it makes Steve feel absolutely ravenous to give him everything he could ever want, makes him want to rush carelessly forward, even as he relishes the ability to touch him slowly, to take him in and enjoy the view.  "Dusty," he says, and it comes out wounded and intense, makes it difficult for him to say anything more, because so many thoughts are crashing around in his head, and every one seems as important as the last.  He wants to tell him how devastatingly beautiful he is, how strong he is, how safe he makes Steve feel.  He wants to tell him how much he loves him, and how every terrible thing he's ever done only makes Steve cherish him more.  He wants to tell him that he can't see any kind of future worth living unless Dustin is there with him, and how he'd help him cover a thousand murders, if only it meant they could have a little more time together.  He wants to tell him that his sins only make him more lovely in Steve's eyes, how the knowledge that Dustin is willing to kill for him is exhilarating and dazzling, filling him up with want and affection until all he can do is just say his name like a prayer, because there's so much feeling inside of him that he can't articulate anything else.

Dustin seems to understand, can either read it in Steve's tone, or in whatever look is on his face, because he just smiles, soft and tender, and runs the length of his calf over Steve's side, a warm and gentle touch that makes Steve shiver and want to lean further into him.  Steve whimpers and then chokes on it, turning it into a sort of aborted needy noise that he usually only makes in the middle of being hurt in just the right way, but he guesses this is close enough to that to justify it.  He feels the volume of his want and his love expanding ever further inside his chest, pressing so hard against his heart and lungs that he feels each pulse of blood through his body like a fist squeezing him from the outside.  His ribs feel small and stiff, like they're creaking under the duress of everything catalyzing inside of him, his whole body straining towards the devout agony of loving someone as all consuming as Dustin is to him, filling him with an ache like fire and acid, cleansing and destructive, until all he has left is a dire, righteous  _need_  to be closer to the boy laid out in front of him.  

"Come on, sweetheart," Dustin says, gentle and coaxing, like he knows Steve is struggling, overwhelmed and so desperate to keep going that he's lost himself in the maze of it.  He draws one of his knees up and shifts his hips so that Steve can see his hole, a pretty dusky pink against his pale olive skin.  It makes saliva flood up under Steve's tongue so rapidly that he has to swallow or risk drooling, and he wishes suddenly that he could taste him there, could put his mouth on that sweet pucker and open him on his tongue, sliding fingers in alongside until he was ready for more.  He swallows hard again and drags his gaze away, up over the soft swell of Dustin's balls, and the hard line of his dick laying on his belly, flushed dark and a little bit wet at the tip, so fat and pretty it makes Steve clench up on himself at how empty he suddenly feels just looking at it.  He drags his gaze further up, across the soft stretch of Dustin's belly and his chest, his brown nipples standing out against his sun starved skin.  When he finally manages to meet Dustin's eyes, he's looking back fond and amused, as if he's pleased by Steve's inability to make his gaze move quickly, and already expecting some sort of request, fully ready to comply whatever it may be.  

"Dusty," Steve says again, and curses his brain's seeming inability to make a sentence.  He leans forward to put a hand on Dustin's hip, enjoying the soft give under his fingertips, and the light strain on his shoulder as Dustin moves to rest his calf there in order to ease the stretch, but still accommodate Steve in his space.  

Dustin tilts his head just a bit, bringing one shoulder up in a mischievous, curious move, still reclining against the pillows, looking relaxed and lazy.  "All you have to do is tell me, Steve.  You can have whatever you want."  

Steve nods, swallows around the feeling of  _everything_  clogging up his throat, and tries, "Can I eat you out?"  It comes out fast and a little jumbled, but Dustin seems to understand, if the way he flinches up against Steve and drops his hands to clench in the sheets means anything.

"Yeah," he says, and it sounds a little breathless.  "That would be good."  

Steve whimpers, and turns his face into Dustin's knee where it's resting near his shoulder, nuzzling at the soft skin there before pressing his mouth against the dip of the joint, kissing him reverent and grateful.  Then he gently pushes the knee away, sliding Dustin's leg back down and moving to pull at his hips.  "On your front," he murmurs, eyes still caught on Dustin's dick, hungry and covetous, already looking forward to the next time they do this, when he knows Dustin will fill him until he can't take anymore.  Dustin goes easily, presses himself into Steve's hands as he turns, as if he's just as hungry to be touched as Steve is to touch him.  He settles with a pillow under his hips, head resting on his arms in such a way that he can just barely look back at Steve if he wants to.  Steve nearly sobs at the sight of him, clamps down on it with his teeth on his bottom lip and can't help but run a hand down the lower part of Dustin's spine, running a gentle stroke over the small of his back before dropping down to take a handful of his ass.  

Dustin groans and rocks back into him, opening his thighs a little more as he does, and Steve relishes the sight of him spreading just a little, of his taint, smooth and darker than the rest of him, leading down to his balls, resting crowded and pretty on the pillow.  Steve starts there, shimmying back to let himself lay mostly on his front, so that he can easily put his mouth where he wants it, and can press himself down into the sheets if he needs to.  He licks at Dustin's balls delicately and feels heat flare up in his pelvis when Dustin groans in response, shifting his hips but carefully avoiding moving in a way that will jar Steve.  Steve mouths at him again, doing his best to lave each of his balls, sucking gently at the puckered skin before following up with his tongue, dragging it over each one and then up towards his hole, pausing just before he gets there and turning to kiss the swell of each cheek instead.  He follows his tongue with his thumb, pressing firmly at Dustin's perineum until he whimpers and arches back into it and Steve can see his fingers white knuckled in the sheets when he lifts away to look.  

He kisses Dustin again, this time at the small of his back, and nuzzles gently at the dip of his spine before finally moving to spread him open and tongue at his hole, slow and easy, famished for the taste of him and wanting to savor it.  Dustin moans again, and Steve feels the clench of his body in the way his hole flutters against his mouth, the flat of his tongue pressed fully over the delicate pucker.  Steve moans in return, his whole body feeling overwarm and a little unsteady as the rich, musky taste overwhelms him.  He presses his hips into the mattress, desperate for a little pressure on his dick, and licks again, mouthing at Dustin's hole like a kiss and gently firming his tongue to loosen the rim.  

He can tell when Dustin starts concentrating on relaxing, because his whole body seems to go loose and he rolls his hips, pressing down into the pillows and then back against Steve's mouth, careful and intentional, fully aware of how much force he can apply before it makes things inconvenient for Steve.  Steve stays put, lets him move how he wants to take the pleasure he needs, content just to have the taste on his tongue, and to be able to feel him loosening against his mouth when he goes still again.  It doesn't take much longer before he's able to push his tongue completely inside, moving it gently, and sucking softly at Dustin's rim when he's able, enjoying the feel of him clenching and releasing in time with the tiny press of his hips into the pillows, his quiet breaths catching and stuttering on little moans and whines as he goes.  

He's beautiful, Steve thinks, and lets his eyes drift closed as he swallows a mouthful of saliva, the taste so strong now that it's almost cloying, except that he enjoys it too much to give it that label.  He sighs and nuzzles at Dustin's crack before leaning in to penetrate him again, bringing his fingers down to bracket his tongue as he does.  Dustin is relaxed and loose enough now that he could probably start opening him for real, but all he really wants is to stay here for hours, letting the taste fill his mouth as Dustin stays hot and tight on his tongue, his little noises filling up the air until Steve thinks he'd prefer to never hear anything else again.  

Except that then Dustin gasps Steve's name and goes very still all at once, hips obviously lifted away from the pillow, so that when Steve sits back, he can see Dustin's dick hanging down between his thighs, heavy and hard, the tip dripping a tantalizing, sticky string of moisture onto the pillow below.  " _Please_."  His voice is strangled and rough, and Steve can see now that every part of him is pulled taut, his face pressed into the crook of his arm so that he can't look back and see what Steve is up to.  

He's close, Steve realizes with a rush of heat and delight.  He's close, and he wants Steve in him before he comes.  

Steve obliges.  He reaches for the lube and doesn't dawdle when he sets about stretching Dustin for real.  He starts slow enough to know that he won't hurt, and is careful and thorough enough to make up for Dustin's general lack of experience in this department, but he doesn't tease, doesn't drag it out or relish it the way he normally might.  Dustin asked for it, and he wants it soon, and Steve is going to give him everything he ever asks for, because he's beautiful, and terrifying, and brave, and everything Steve loves in this whole shithole of a world.  So he opens him careful and gentle, but with as much haste as he deems safe, and by the time he has three fingers in, Dustin is making a low, desperate keening sound in his chest, rocking back on Steve's fingers like he genuinely can't help himself, and Steve realizes this is not going to last very long at all.  Dustin is never noisy like this, always keeps himself on a tight leash and tries not to lose it too much, because he knows how far gone Steve can go on a pin.  It makes everything in Steve scream and sing to be able to see him like this, to watch him fall apart and become desperate and needy, ready to give himself over to Steve's care and have his body filled and taken, the way he usually does to Steve.

He twists his wrist and presses down with his fingers, dragging the tips along Dustin's insides until he catches his prostate and Dustin's keen turns into a yelp, his hands twisting harder where they're clutching the pillow.  Steve kisses him at the small of his back, and feels his adoration like water in his lungs, filling him with the sharp, burning feeling of drowning, even as he's sure he's never been more alive.  He doesn't take his fingers out when he kisses Dustin at his hip, drawing his other hand down Dustin's flank and taking hold of his ass again, only for a moment.  "Turn over, Dusty.  I think you're ready."  

Dustin goes easily, collapsing down onto his front and then rolling to the side with only enough coordination to allow Steve to move his wrist along with him, keeping his fingers inside until it becomes easier to just take them out to let Dustin settle his legs.  Dustin groans in protest, but doesn't say anything about it, settling as quickly as Steve thinks he's probably able and then pulling both of his knees up, looking at Steve, hungry and expectant.  

Entering him is somewhat of an agony, the slow, searing heat of it burning away at Steve's control until it's all he can do to make sure he doesn't push in too fast and cause hurt that Dustin won't enjoy.  As he struggles with it, muscles shaking under the duress of his sloppy control, he's suddenly in awe again of Dustin's discipline and care when Steve knows he's usually much more desperate and demanding, much less patient for Dustin to get on with it, but still, he never comes away with more damage than he can handle.  He can't look at Dustin's face while he does it, can't let himself focus on anything but moving slowly enough, paying enough attention to the way Dustin is breathing and how his body is tensing or relaxing, so that he knows when to pause and when to carry on.  It's not until he's in all the way, hips pressed flush to Dustin's ass that he lets himself look up to see Dustin's face.  

Dustin looks wrecked, flushed and glassy eyed, bottom lip bruised and swollen from his teeth pressing into it, but he's smiling, soft and full of adoration, almost the way he looks when he's proud of Steve, when Steve has done just what he's been told, or taken more than either of them thought he would.  It makes Steve's heart stutter, and suddenly he feels weak, like he needs praise or a command to carry him forward, and he finds himself dropping down onto his elbows, just so he can press closer to Dustin's body, feel more of his warmth against his skin.  Dustin welcomes him, drops his knees to wrap his thighs over Steve's hips, nudging him forward with a heel at his ass, despite the fact that he's already as far in as he can be.  He drops his arms onto Steve's shoulders, too, wraps them around Steve's neck and pulls him down close, until they're near enough that Steve can only see his eyes unless he intentionally looks elsewhere, and he thinks he could get lost in the black of Dustin's pupils, spread so wide in the pale blue pool of his irises.  Dustin's breath is warm on his lips, too, coming first in a few quick pants, and then slower as Dustin arches up into him, licks delicately at his lower lip and says, rich and full of approval, "You did good, sweetheart.  Thank you."

Steve whimpers in response, and feels his eyes slip closed as Dustin moves a hand into his hair, closing his fingers tight at the base of Steve's skull and pulling with enough force to jerk his head back until his neck is taut.  Steve's hips hitch in response, desperate to relay the gratification he gets from the stinging pain, and then he whines, apologetic and needy all at once, aware that Dustin hasn't told him to move.  Dustin arches his wrist, uses the heel of his palm to force Steve to lower his head, but keeps pulling his hair as he does it, so the end result is Steve's neck at Dustin's mouth, his pulse hammering wild and erratic against Dustin's teeth.  Then Dustin plants his heels on the mattress next to Steve's knees and rolls his hips in a wide enough circle to draw himself almost completely off Steve's dick before sinking down again.  His mouth is like a brand on Steve's neck, his teeth cruel when they clamp down on the hard line of tendon there, chewing a little bit until it feels raw and achey, like a hickey without any sucking.  It's incredible, and Steve hears himself whine like a dog as Dustin does it, can't stop the forlorn dip in the sound when he pulls off.  

Dustin laughs, dark and quiet, and Steve feels it rumbling in his own chest, vibrating between his ribs and into his heart, singing in his blood until he has to move his hips again, just to relieve the pressure there, unable to control himself, even though he knows Dustin didn't tell him to go yet.  Dustin puts his other hand on Steve's ribs, pressure light enough not to be painful on his bruises, a sweet harbinger of what's to come if Steve behaves himself.  He feels Dustin nuzzling at his neck, feels the curve of his smile pressed into the skin under his jaw, and is powerless to move his head to look or give better access, because the pressure on his hair is still so strong.  Instead he whimpers, and then clenches up and feels sweat breaking out in his armpits and at his groin, because Dustin is grinning now, the flats of his teeth flush against Steve's skin.  

"You're sweet," Dustin says, and the words are almost totally muffled by the press of his mouth against Steve's skin.  He understands anyways, is paying such close attention, he wonders if maybe the sentiment could've been communicated psychically just as well, his whole body tuned to Dustin, waiting for direction and praise and all the things he always wants to get from him.  "Go on," Dustin adds, and then he releases Steve's hair and forces him to tilt his head down so that they can kiss while Steve begins to fuck him in earnest.  

It's sloppy, and rough, and not at all coordinated, but it doesn't seem to matter.  Dustin moans, presses the sound of it deep into Steve's throat, and arches into him, somehow meeting his rhythm despite the total lack of regularity in it.  For a moment, Steve wonders if he's supposed to touch Dustin's dick, to help him get off when he's so unused to being fucked, but when he moves to do it, Dustin smacks his wrist hard enough to sting.  It startles Steve enough that he stops altogether, brain too foggy to comprehend the situation or what he did wrong until Dustin's other hand is on his face, fingers digging into his jaw until he feels his teeth grinding against the insides of his cheeks.  "No touching," he says, and it's so full of affection that Steve can't find anything but heat in response.  

"I'm sorry," he says, and tries to sound contrite, even though it's tainted with how turned on he is, how much he revels in the punishments Dustin gives him.  

Dustin presses his thumb against Steve's bottom lip, forcing it into Steve's mouth and then pressing down on his tongue as well.  Steve whimpers and struggles to keep his eyes open in the face of this level of stimulation.  Dustin's other hand is still warm on his ribs, and the bruises seem to be pulsing and aching with every beat of his heart, as if the touch alone is bringing the pain and inflammation to a head, no pressure necessary.  Dustin smiles at him and draws his thumb back again.  "Thank you," he says, satisfied and firm, and Steve doesn't know what he's grateful for, but he's not sure he really cares, is just glad to have made Dustin happy.  

He whimpers, confused, and does his best to press into Dustin's touch wherever he can.  He doesn't know what to do, or how to proceed, and the aimlessness of it is bubbling up in him until all he really knows is that he wants to make Dustin happy, wants to please him, and care for him, and make sure he knows how special he is, how good he is, and how much Steve needs and wants him.  He rolls his hips again and tries not to sound too distraught when he cries out.  Dustin just looks at him, encouraging and gentle, always exactly who Steve needs him to be, even when Steve himself doesn't understand who that might be.  He hitches out a noisy breath and drops low again, desperate for more proximity.  Dustin accepts him easily, sliding the one hand back up to Steve's ribs to settle again on the bruises and dropping the other to his ass, grabbing hold and urging Steve's hips forward until he's close enough that Dustin can slip a finger down into his crack and rub gently at his hole.  

Steve keens, presses his face into the sanctuary of Dustin's neck, and fucks him like that as best he can, trying not to move out of reach of Dustin's touch, but still wanting to give him as much pleasure as possible with his strokes.  Dustin's hand goes tighter on his ribs, fingers driving into the most agonizingly raw spots of bruising, and Steve feels himself start to cry, tears springing hot and sudden into his eyes as he presses his open mouth to Dustin's neck.  

Dustin tilts his head towards him, nuzzling at Steve's face as much as he's able when they're pressed close like this, and grits out a quiet, "Steve, I'm close."  

Steve sobs in response, breath catching harsh and jagged in his chest, stumbling out of his throat as a wet cough, and he brings his hand to rest on top of Dustin's on his ribs, pressing tight to hold him there as he tries his best to hit a good rhythm at the right angle, to keep their bodies pressed close enough together that there's friction on Dustin's dick between them, frantic and desperate for Dustin to come, because, he thinks, after everything Dustin's been through, he deserves a fucking orgasm.  

"Please," he chokes, and tightens his fingers harder over Dustin's pressing them into the hollows between his ribs until he can't even breathe for the pain.  "Please, Dusty."  He rolls his hips again, and Dustin's fingers dig into his ass just as savagely as his ribs, hard enough that Steve is sure he'll bruise there as well, and he nearly chokes again on the sob that wells up in his chest.  "I love you," he says, and it's garbled and stupid, like when he'd just come back, but Dustin only clings, presses his face closer to Steve's and lets out a pathetic, aching sound, his whole body going still and tight until Steve feels his dick twitching between them, and the hot splash of cum on his skin.

He holds himself still as Dustin comes, panting and whining, unable to keep the noise in check, but wanting to let Dustin take sensation as he needs it without overwhelming him, and Dustin holds onto him, tight and sweet, like he knows how hard Steve is trying, like he wants to make sure Steve gets the proximity he needs, like maybe he needs it just as much.  

When he's finished, Dustin collapses back a little, pulls his hand up from Steve's ass, ignoring the distraught noise Steve makes as he does it, dragging his fingers over Steve's belly, and then his own, gathering up his cum before dropping back to where he'd been before, rubbing his wet fingers over Steve's hole as he says, "Come on, sweetheart."  

Steve keens and presses back into the touch almost involuntarily, suddenly desperate for Dustin's cum inside him, even though he's not the one being fucked.  Dustin pulls him close again, using his knees at Steve's hips to encourage him forward until he's close enough that Dustin can reach, and he presses a finger up into Steve's ass fast enough to sting and ache.  Steve groans, feels tears building again in his eyes, and can only look down at him, helpless and in need.  "Please, Dusty," he says again, and again isn't entirely sure what he's asking for.  

Dustin only smiles at him, soft and full of adoration.  "Okay, baby.  I've got you."  

He rolls his hips, just enough for Steve to feel the movement of his insides, and presses at Steve's hole with the tip of a second finger, moving the first in a shallow thrust as he does.  Steve whines, lets his eyes slip shut, because he knows if he leaves them open, it will be too much, and he very well might start panicking.  Dustin does it again, and this time the tip of the second finger slips into him, the stretch of it harsh and nearly unbearable, but the sting seems to go straight to Steve's dick, and he knows that he'll be fine after, because Dustin is still being gentle, despite the force.  "Dusty," he gasps, "I need..." But he doesn't know what he needs, only that he's so close he can't understand why he hasn't come already, and that Dustin's body is beautiful and warm, tight around him and in him and pressed deep against his skin, a temple at which Steve would very much like to spend the rest of his life worshiping, an altar on which he would sacrifice every part of himself and still look for more to give.  

He feels Dustin's lips at his forehead, pressed there gentle and soft, where everything else is overwhelming, vicious, and too much, but in all the right ways.  He feels Dustin roll his hips again, feels him drive those fingers in a hard thrust to Steve's aching, raw hole, feels him press ferocious and sharp into his bruised ribs, and then feels the warm gust of Dustin's breath on his sweaty forehead as Dustin says, soft and broken, "Come on, sweetheart.  I need to know you're alive." 

It shatters everything in him, liquefies him with annihilating heat, and then chills him back to a solid state, until all he can feel is the brutal, calamitous rush of his orgasm devoured and regurgitated by the pain in every part of him, the ragged, knife wound ache in his ribs, the wretched, raw stretch of his hole, the explosive, grueling feeling of his heart caving in on itself, collapsed into nothing by the sheer weight of what Dustin has said, and what he's done, and how much power he has to have torn Steve back out of death, only because their love is too much to survive alone, and even the universe knows that if one of them ends, so must the other.  He gasps, and sobs, and clings with everything he has, pressing his body down into Dustin with as much force as he can muster, desperate to eliminate every space and obstacle between them, as if they could meld into one person, just by the act of fucking alone.  As if his cum in Dustin's body, and Dustin's in his could bind them to one soul, could link their heartbeats, and their breath, until they lived one life, governed only by Dustin's determination of whether or not they are yet allowed to die.  

He cries, open and agonized, and when his orgasm is done, he pulls back only enough to look Dustin in the eye, his vision blurred and wobbly behind his tears.  "I'm alive," he says, and feels the way Dustin's body arches into him in response, despite the orgasms already being finished.  " _We're_  alive.  Thanks to you."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! There's probably more coming in this series eventually, but for now I need a break. Feel free to hit me up elsewhere if you like. I'm turtlenovas everywhere.


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